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SEPTEMBER l<R<o3 



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HEY RATS ! 



and upperclassmen 



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Fred Busch Says: 

YOU TOO CAN BE THE CENTER OF ATTENTION 



"m' 



s Best College 



"HE CHRONICLE. 



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WHO? EvervbodN 



Editor's Note 



WELL 



... we certainly didn't expect to see you back this year. But since you are, 
l)ull up a romfortahle chair, settle hack with a cool drink (non-alcoholic of 
course; rememher rule 16) and turn further through this fine magazine. As 
you sip your drink and turn the pages you will notice a few changes here and 
there in the appearance of the magazine. The Chronicle is only two and a 
lialf years old. that is it has been two and a half years since its reorganization 
hy the Calhoun Literary Society, and it is still undergoing growing pains 
which are sometimes very noticeable. 

The cries of pain and anguish and despair that might escape from our 
subterranean offices, along with the sounds of tables and chairs being violently 
hurled about, are only the signs of a stage the magazine is going through and 
everything will soon be under control or give way to a new stage. Getting 
back to changes in the magazine's appearance, some of them are readily 
apparent. For instance, there is the addition of the mag's name in the lower 
left margin of the right hand pages. A nice touch, don't you think? And then 
there is a newly designed contents page. This page is the one that seems to 
change with every new staff, so you have probably gotten used to it now. 

Those are the technical changes. If you think we have been tooting our 
own horn, you're right, because we think we have a good reason. You re- 
member we said earlier that the Chronicle is only two and a half years old. 
Well, the Chronicle was again awarded the Best Magazine Trophy by the 
South Carolina Collegiate Press Association at the convention in Charleston 
last spring. That means that we have won this trophy for each full year of 
publication. In addition to the big trophy, there were individual awards for 
INCA' BILL (Winter 196;^l, THE MASTER FLAN OF CLEMSON COL- 
LEGE (Midwinter 1962) and others too numerous to mention. 

As you turn through the mgazine you will find Phil Wattley's story of 
what might happen tomorrow or the next day. Dail Dixon, our art editor, is 
up or down to his usual nonsense with a fable of sorts with obvious symbolism 
to tho.se few who share the same type of receding mind, er, hairline, and a 
new collection for "The Other Side of Poetry" for those who are far ahead 
of the likes of us. And we cannot overlook the |)rofile of three talented artists 
here on campus with thoughts about their work. And of course you will find 
the usual fcalincs that the Clemson students enjoy so much. 

That's about the size of this issue. Why don't you drop us a card or a 
l.ttr. letting us know what you think of this is.sue. Or better yet. if you are 
brav<- and daring enough, come down to one of our meetings. In any event 
give us an indication of what you would like to see more of. We get pretty 
Ur.-d of trying to imagine- what the rest of the students like. (We really know 
what vou lik.'. but we can't pritit that sort of thing, guys!) — MDM 
CHRONICLE 229223 




Ah/D 



CHAMBER 
MUSIC 




A young girl went to a doctor's 
office and he gave her a thorough 
examination. 

Doctor: "What is your husband's 
name?" 

Girl: "I don't have a husband." 

Doctor: "Then what is your boy 
friend's name?" 

Girl: "I don't have a boy friend." 

The doctor went to the office win- 
dow and raised the shade. The girl 
asked why he did it and he replied: 

"The last time this happened, a 
star rose in the East, and 1 don't want 
to miss it." 





Drug 
STO\lE 




A well-to-do merchant who wanted 
his son to follow in his footsteps called 
the lad aside one day and gave him 
the following instructions: 

"Biddy, you're 16 years old now and 
I'm going to tell you certain im- 
portant facts of life. To begin with, 
let's explain your hand. 

First, this is the thumb, with which 
you hitchhike through life. 

Next, the index finger, with which 
you point out things. 

Now comes the middle finger, which 
should really be called the pleasure 
finger, with it — but I'll tell you about 
that later. 

And there is the ring finger, which 
is used for engagements and marriages. 

And finally, the little finger, the 
pinkie, which delicately protrudes 
when dining." 

"But, Dad," interrupted Biddy 
(impatient and excited), "please tell 
me about the pleasure finger!" 

"Oh, the pleasure finger," an- 
swered the merchant. "That's what you 
use to ring up sales on the cash 
register!" 



A number of showgirls were enter- 
taining the troops at a remote Army 
camp. They had been at it all after- 
noon and were not only tired but very 
hungry. Finally at the close of their 
performance the major asked, "Would 
you girls like to mess with the enlisted 
men or the officers this evening?" 

"It really doesn't make any differ- 
ence," spoke up a shapely blonde. "But 
we've just got to have something to 
eat first." 



A girl who tries to talk her boy 
friend into buying her a silk night- 
gown usually ends up with her boy 
friend trying to talk her out of it. 



The young couple had just returned 
from their honeymoon, and the wife's 
friends gathered anxiously about her. 
"How did Tom register at the first 
hotel you stopped at?" they asked. 



'Just fine," she blushed. "Just 



fine. 



"For goodness sake, use both 
hands!" 

"Can't. Gotta drive with one." 



A city girl was swimming nude in 
a secluded millpond. Along came a boy 
who proceeded to tie knots in her 
clothes. She picked up an old wash tub 
and, holding it in front of her, she 
marched toward the kid, saying, "You 
little brat, do you know what I'm 
thinking?" 

"Yeh," said the kid, "you're think- 
ing that that tub has a bottom in it!" 

Darling, the maid has burned the 
eggs. Would you be satisfied with a 
couple of kisses for breakfast? 

Sure, send her in. 



Jikveh 6e 




^kofifi«,lfe. 



Ju4j& k^lkfiS 



<^nfSo7%. 



AEO 



MIKE MEDLOCK 

Editor 

GEOFF GROAT 

Managing Editor 

BOBBY WILEY 

Business Manager 



DAIL DIXON 

Art Editor 



CHARLES BRYAN 

Copy Editor 



DAVE HENRY 

Feature Editor 



LARRY PAYNE 

Humor Editor 



HARRY SUBER 

Circulation Manager 



GLENN SMOAK 

Advertising Manager 



JIM MCCONNELL 

Promotions 



BOARD OF CRITICS 

John McCarter 

Dendy Sloan 

Tom Young 

Jim McConnell 



CONTRIBUTORS 

Roy Ayers 

Paul Bunch 

John Fowler 

Seth Harrison 

Jerry Irick 

Dave Maltby 

Bill Meggs 

Al Merritt 

Bob Oliver 

Frank Pearce 

Durward Stinson 

Phil Wattley 

Fred Busch 



MARK STEADMAN 

Faculty Advisor 



Chronicle 



SEPTEMBER 1963 



VOL. IV, NO. 1 





CONTENTS 


5 


What Goes On Here? 


7 


3 Artists 


14 


Lauderdale Tales 


16 


Burn, One or Three Times 


18 


A Fable 


19 


Miss S.C. Pageant 


22 


Freshman Survival Kit 


24 


Gentlemen's Choice 


27 


Book Review 


28 


Poetry 


30 


Other Side of Poetry 


31 


My First Book of College 


37 


The Freshman 



Cliroiirlr 



J^ 

^ 



OUR COVER: Another fine work of art by our talented 
artist-cartoonist and sometimes architect Durward Stinson, 
representing the intersection where all good students 
turn right from summer fun and frolic to travel the 
slippery road of knowledge. 



The Chronicle Is an official student publication of Clemson College, published quarterly in September, 
December, March and May by the Calhoun Literary Society. Address oil correspondence to the Chronicle, 
Box 2186, College Station, Clemson, South Carolina. Student subscriptions are paid for through the 
student activities fee. Other subscription rales: U.S. and possessions: one year $2.00; Canada and 
Pon American Union countries: $2.50; all other foreign countries: $3.00. Second-class postage paid 
at Clemson, South Carolina (permit pending). Payment may also be remitted in the following foreign 
curiencies for cne year subscription: Australian pounds (I 1312); Belgian francs (186); Danish 
kroner (26); English pounds (2 4 6); French francs (19); Dutch guilders (14); Indian rupees (19); 
Italian lire (540); Japanese yen (1260); Norwegian kroner (27); South African rands (2.70); Swiss francs 
(16); West Geiman marks (15); Russian ruples (5000); Confederate dollars (2,376,919.37). Editorial 
contributions are desperately needed. The editors reserve the right to reject any contribution and 
make any changes in editorial contributions. The opinions expressed herein do not necessarily reflect 
the views of the Clemson College administration or faculty. National Advertising Representatives: 
College Magazines, Inc., II West 42nd Street, New York 36, New York. Member: Associated Collegiate 
Press. Printed by offset in the U.S.A. 



MLEPfJANTS 



ANybtxiY i 



Do you know why elephants have 
flat feet? 

No, as a matter of fact I haven't the 
foggiest idea. 

From jumping out of trees. 




Wisenheimer: What do elephants 
and canaries have in conuiion? 

Super-Dunce: What? 

Wisenheimer: They both can fly . . , 
except for the elephant, of course. 



Don't 

be 

half 

prepared 

for 

falll 



W&H has a complete 
line of the latest fall 
suits and sports wear to 
outfit you for any 
occasion. 




waiters & hlllman 



A dashing young elephant swain 
swore by all elephant vows that his 
Clarice was the fairest maiden in all of 
elephant land, and he would have none 
other. 

"Be mine, Clarice," he pleaded. "If 
you refuse me I shall die." 

But she refused him, and sure 
enough, 130 years later he died. 
• 

"Tell me — who is the real boss in 
your home?" 

"Well, my wife bosses the servants 
— and the children boss the dog and 
cat — and — " 

"And you?" 

"Oh, I can say anything I want to 
about the elephants." 
• 

Sam Goldwyn was giving his script 
writers a pep talk. He wanted a super- 
colossal picture, one that would be 
sure to draw audiences. Finally one of 
the men coolly asked whether he had 
any suggestions. 

"Sure! Start with one thousand 
stampeding elephants and build up to 
a climax." 

• 

A Chicago psychiartrist encountered 
a challenging problem in the person of 
a patient who was absolutely convinced 
he was in love with an elephant. After 
endless sessions on the couch the 
analyst convinced the poor fellow it 
all had been a hallucination. "O.K., 
so I'm cured," nodded the patient 
weakly, "but now I've got another 
problem you must solve for me." 
"What now?" asked the analyst 
wearily. 

The patient demanded, "Do you 
happen to know somebody in the mar- 
ket for one mighty big engagement 
ring?" 

• 

Q. Why are elephants gray? A. So 
you can tell them from blueberries. 

Q. What did Tarzan say when he 
saw the elephants coming? A. "Here 
come the elephants." 

Q. What did Jane say when she saw 
the elephants coming? A. "Here 
come the blueberries," because she is 
colorblind. 

Q. Why do elephants wear sneakers? 
A. To creep up on mice. 

Q. Why do elephants wear green 
sneakers? A. To hide in the tall grass. 

Q. Why do elephants wear red 
sneakers? A. Because their green ones 
are in the laundry. 

Q. How do you make an elephant 
float? A. With two scoops of ice 
cream, an elephant and some root beer. 

Q. How do you lift an elephant? A. 
Put him on an acorn and let it grow. 

Q. How can you tell there's an ele- 
phant in your bathtub? A. You can 
smell the peanuts on his breath. 

Q. How do you prevent an elephant 
from charging? A. You take away his 
credit card. 



6 

Editorial 



WHAT GOES ON HERE? 



T'here is a lot of talk today about 
education and the problems of pro- 
viding enough well educated people to 
step into the positions of leadership in 
tomorrow's society. The need for more 
and more qualified scientists and en- 
gineers for industry and research is 
readily apparent in light of our rapid 
technological advances and newer re- 
search methods. 



The problem today is not so much 
getting into college but learning some- 
thing while you are there. Robert 
Hutchins observes wryly, "Today, 
though it is possible to get an educa- 
tion in an American Iniversity. a man 
would have to be so bright and to 
know so much to gel it that he would 
not really need it." 



Out of all the talk about education 
comes new ideas. One of these is cre- 
ative education. This is education that 
makes students think, rather than one 
that force-feeds them with isolated bits 
of information. A brilliantly written 
textbook cannot make a student think, 
and learning cannot be legislated. For 
creative education to flourish, it is 
necessary for there to be a suitable 
climate of opinion. 



We have 'asked ourselves if such a 
climate exi.sts on this campus, and we 
can only answer no. This may sound 
like a harsh judgment to some, but we 
believe we are justified, and here are 
some of our reasons. 
CHRONICLE 



What is the first major occurrence 
in the life of a freshman after he ar- 
rives on campus? He comes in contact 
with a tradition left over from military 
days. (The reason for continuing this 
tradition after the changeover is one 
we have yet to find.) In short, the 
freshman becomes a "rat." He has his 
head shaved and begins wearing his 
orange beanie and learns all the col- 
lege songs and cheers. This period of 
college initiation lasts for approxi- 
mately two months. During this period 
there is compulsory attendance at pep 
rallies and other rat activities. The 
threat of loss of additional locks of hair 
or other punishment makes attendance, 
as well as a knowledge of the alma 
mater, songs and pep cheers, "com- 
pulsory." To require the whole fresh- 
man class to go running about campus 
during study hours, disrupting the 
study of those who have gone through 
these antics before, is hardly the way 
to instill a serious attitude towards 
academic work in the first crucial 
months. A great deal more could be 
said about the "rat" tradition, but the 
arguments have been made before. 
There are indications that this tradition 
is on the wane, mainly from lack of 
interest on the part of upperclassmen. 

It is possible that we shall see the 
deathblow struck within the next few 
years. When the first Negro freshman 
enters Clemson, the apprehension the 
administration would have about 
mixed "rat" activities might be such 
to warrant calling a halt to the "rat" 
tradition. 

At present there does not seem to be 




BASS WEEJUNS 

aren't absolutely required 
but they are the general rule 




Weejuns are the accepted casuals 
on any school campus in the 

country. Their traditional styling 
makes them acceptable for 

every occasion except formals.* 



'Psst! BLACK Weejuns 
can even go there! 




any lack of classroom space. This is 
something we have to be thankful for. 
On the other hand, we do lack an 
auditorium large enough for the entire 
student body. Attending a concert or 
lecture here is a rather strenuous af- 
fair. The field house (or as Fred 
Waring, the bandleader, once called it, 
the "Fine Arts Auditorium") and 
Tillman Hall are not provided with 
comfortable seats or adequate ventila- 
tion for either summer or winter. 



We cannot fail to mention our li- 
brary crammed into a building un- 
suited for that purpose. We feel that 
a library should be the one place on 
a campus that possesses that quiet aura 
of knowledge. This is not the case 
here. The noise of fans in the summer, 
steam pipes in the winter, people talk- 
ing and walking and tapping, and 
doors closing with ponderous thuds 
serves to overwhelm any aura that 
might occur. 



The bookstore has been raked across 
the coals many times before. We will 
have to agree with the opinion that the 



bookstore should serve the students in 
any way it can and not just serve to 
make a profit for the athletic associa- 
tion. But this is not our major con- 
cern. We would like to see the book- 
store stock many more paperback 
books on a great variety of subjects 
that would have no connection with 
required reading. Of course, the book- 
store would continue to stock paper- 
backs for parallel reading. To have the 
best sellers, fiction and non-fiction 
and complete works of the world's 
great authors and thinkers available 
in paperback books is an excellent way 
to start a personal library that will 
yield great rewards. Until recently 
there were parallel reading books and 
non-books, as TIME Magazine calls 
them, with only a few really good 
paperbacks available. Now there is a 
stock of paperbacks of one publisher 
who offers a great variety of subjects, 
mostly nonfiction. This type of selec- 
tion is what we need more of. 



Now we come upon the shaky 
ground of faculty-student relations. 
This is an uncertain area for us be- 
cause three years as a student do not 
provide enough time or the proper 



place from which to take an objective 
view. The only thing that we can 
really say has already been said. Zip 
Grant said in the TIGER that there 
seems to be a "mutual agreement of 
apathy" between the students and the 
faculty. This is unusual because of 
the relatively small class in most 
courses. The classroom should be a 
place where the student can express 
himself and his opinions. It appears 
that in most classes the professor is 
doing all the talking. This is not a 
good way to make students think, but 
it is a good way to put some to sleep. 



In this editorial, we have attempted 
to present briefly some of the prob- 
lems that exist on this campus. Time 
will solve most of them, but slowly. The 
others will not be solved until the 
student body, the faculty and the ad- 
ministration have a greater awareness 
of them. When this happens, then the 
meaning of education comes alive in 
the words of Plato. "Let those pieces 
of learning which explain life be 
brought together in one view," he 
wrote, "so that the relation of things 
will be clear." 



I 



Gallant Belk Co. 

SENECA 




Campus -and 'Career Belts . . . 2.50 



CHRONICLE LISTINGS 

CONCERTS 

November 3 
Montovani 

November 20 

Black Watch Regimental Band 

and Highland Dancers 

LECTURE 

November 21 

Alfred Lande — Physicist 
from Ohio State University 

RUDOLPH LEE GALLERY 

September 9-28 . 

Brasilia, A New Capital 

Photographic Show from the Smithsonian Institute 

September 16-27 

Painting/Sculpture, by R. H. Hunter 
(Courtyard) 

Octobvr 1-22 

Young Americans, 1962 

Craftsman Show from A.F.A. 

November 1-21 

English Water Colors & Drawings 

of the ISth & 19th Centuries 

November 28-December 18 
Landscape Architecture 
Photographic Show from A.F.A. 






3 artists' 




JOHN ACORN 



'background isn't so important — 
it's what I'm doing now.' 



'my work is rooted in nature; I'm 
not concerned with what other 
people (artists) are doing' 



'There is a fine line between origi- 
nality and sensationalism.' 



'I need time — I couldn't go fast 



'to the artists, his work is a way 
of life, it is not a job but is some- 
thing that is a part of him; he 
thinks about it, orders his life to 
it, dreams about it . . .' 



'The artist basically creates for 
himself, but this does not mean 
that he is not interested in his fel- 
low man. The artist can not con- 
cern himself with whether or not 
his work is accepted by the public' 



'The artist is slowly becoming a 
more accepted person in our so- 
ciety. We are beginning to realize 
that there is more to life than own- 
ing a split-level house, having two 
automobiles and membership in a 
country club.' 



Sculpture 'to be significant and a 
work of art, must possess the quali- 
ty of timelessness.' 



In my work 'I have attempted to 
express my feelings about the way 
things grow. I have not tried to 
imitate plant forms but rather I 
have tried to capture the essence 
of growth.' 



PRODUCED BY DAIL DIXON 
PHOTOS BY GEOFF GROAT 



'Sculpture is the art of creating 
significant forms. These forms may 
be carved out of a block of stone, 
or modelled in clay, or cast in 
bronze, or hammered out of a 
sheet of copper.' 



"I question everything' 



'A creative person always ends 
up doing what he has to.' 



"An individual always stands out, 
the idea that they are unusual is 
important." 



'Once you hegin repeating you are 
dead.' 



"Man is trying to resolve what na- 
ture has done in his own order" 



"Everything in nature is related 
to color" 



'The artist must be receptive to 
society around him — though he 
usually doesn't.' 



"Oil painting is not in keeping with 
the twentieth century, we're out- 
side more" 



'Each artist has to explore his 
creative limitations' 



"Rectangular shapes are out of 
place in the landscape" 



'Exploiting the uncommon has 
been the essence of unusual artists' 



"Sacrifice the past for the impact 
of the new" 



"an art form is an interplay of the 
individual and the society in which 
it exists" 



"There's an art renaissance today' 



"The whole world looks to the 
United States for art" 



10 



IRELAND REGNIER 



'I can't be separated from my 
hackground — it's part of the over- 
all production.' 



'The dollar is becoming less im- 
portant as our country grows older 
. . . art is building up.' 



'People (artists) do what they do 
because they have to' 



Being associated with a school 'is 
merely a tool of the historian.' 



'My work is fast and controlled 
haphazard — I have to work fast.' 



'You don't have to rebel to create.' 



'My work is me and it will change 
with me as I grow.' 



A work of art 'must have a 
reasonable longevity . . . one per- 
son can't make a work of art.' 



'I wouldn't like for everyone to 
own something I did.' 



'If you are liked by everyone you 
are a loser.' 



'There is a culture boom today.' 



'Art is the antenna of society. 



'(Clemson) students are awfully 
aware — more so than I expected.' 



12 




UuC)eR 



PROLOQUe 



WHEN it's Aprillc who gives a hoot? 

The Clemson men are pierced to the root 

To close their hooks and put 'em away 

And get the hell out every weekend in May. 

Birds chirpeth tenderly from yon hough; 

The physical plant spreads the dung of a cow. 

Chickens flutter through the henhouse door, 

And the cocks are screaming for more and more. 

Spring is here, so students get their rocks, 

Have a panty raid, or pool Dean Cox. 

But life is serious, days are dark — 

For all good men must now emhark 

On a pilgrimage to a distant place 

Where a martyr died in a fantastic race. 

The contest took place heside the sea. 

The spot is marked hy a tall oak tree 

Beneath whose l)0Ughs the hero lies 

Com]jletely preserved in way that implies 

What manner he saved Clemson's honor that day. 

The contest came ahout in a simple way — 

The higgest of drinkers at U.S.C. 

Challenged all comers, whoever they be, 

To race to see who could first consume 

Two fifths of bourbon and still have room 

For a case of beer and a jug of wine, 

A bottle of gin and some turpentine. 

The setting was the beach on Easter Day 

Since most would be there anyway. 

C-square sent their finest lush 

Who drank so much her skin was mush. 

The Citadel sent a boy from B 

Who claimed that he could drink a sea. 

From Winthrop came a confirmed sot 

Who knew her innards would soon rot. 

Many thought Clemson an "also ran" 

Although they sent their very best man. 

The contest was torrid, and all to compete 

Thought the Tiger would surely be beat. 

He drank so fast, but he did last 

Until the end. All stood aghast 

As he won the race and turned to stone. 

He lies there still, as hard as bone. 

Now all Clemson men go to that place 

To honor his grave for saving our face. 

And I with my wonderful poetic skill 

Did jot out a rime that'll make you ill 

Because it describes the people I saw 

On the way to gaze at his grave with awe. 



6^ie tales 



By Bill meqqs 



A GRADUATING senior led the line; 

He was sipping ale from an antique stein. 

Girls impress him in the dark; 

All he cares is how they park. 

He's leaving in June, so he doesn't care 

As long as he passes all courses with fair. 

A word of advice he leaves behind : 

Try to avoid that awful lunch line, 

And avoid those potatoes whenever you can, 

Chemicals whip a well-whipped man. 

The world outside is calling him now, 

So as he leaves, in reverence bow. 

A C girl strutted by so fine 

And gave that same old peacock line. 

"1 could've flown to Cape Cod Bay, 

"Or Arkansas or the Milky Way. 

"But Dad (he's worth a million or more) 

"Knew I was nothing more than a hoer 

"Of soils where girls shouldn't hoe. 

"But where the hell else can a girl get a beau?" 

NEXT came the editor of a S.C. newspaper. 
He loves his state, but he'll always rape her 
By denying his readers international news. 
And what he does cover, he misconstrues. 
"Provincial" describes the editorial page. 
WOMEN'S MISSIONAHY LMON EEECTS 

HEADLINES say 
When they should be telling of a Russian named K. 
His life-long readers would probably swear 
They had no idea Latin America was there, 
Except for Cuba ( He told them of that — - 
That makes one feather in his featherless hat). 

THEN there was the great director of sports 

Who will not build enough tennis courts 

For all the students who want to play. 

So that one usually waits half a day 

In order to swat out a set or two. 

Students, it seems he would do something for you 

Because you support him when he doesn't win, 

And a coach's not winning is quite a sin. 

But you know what they say: "Wait'll next year!" 

That's all I've heard since I've been here. 



A READER of PLAYBOY magazine 

Was admiring his playmate — .4ie was his queen. 

Although she was paper and folded in three. 

He admired her with so much glee 

He had her with ta<ks hanging from the wall 

In the manner of one who did it for all. 

He learned how to dress, or mix a drink. 

He learned everything, even how to think. 

Hugh Hefner hands readers philosophy to use. 

And six million a month changes hands to Hugh'; 



THEN came a student engineer; 
He had a pencil behind his ear. 
From his belt a slide rule swung. 
And from his pocket a drop card hung. 
He knew how to deal with numbers galore, 
But with the girls he made no score 
Until the rumor he'd make a mint 
Caused 31 girls to pick up his scent. 

NEXT came a professor of economics 
Who was so ugly his wife always vomits 
When he kisses her with his mug 
Or grabs her in a giant bear hug. 
He really loves a good recession. 
And cannot wait until a depression; 
For breadline patrons are so weary 
They'll listen to anyone's blasted theory. 

ALONG came two boys from Stigma Pi, 

Each the apple of his own eye. 

They were so alike in manner and dress 

Even their parents would have to confess 

One or the other might be another, 

'Cause ya' gotta be a rubber stamp brother. 

AN ARCHITECT major lumbered by. 

His hair was so long it stabbed his eye. 

He talked of philosophy and art and such 

But any old fool saw he didn't know much. 

He analyzed every building by the road 

.And delivered a talk on the aesthetic commode. 

A TRUE intellectual I did espy. 

For an agricultural major was passing by. 

He gave his college its reputation — 

We're the best Cow College in the nation. 

When asked to comment on courses and such 

He said : "That English don't learn me much." 

But ask him to name the name of a tree, 

Ask him to mate a horny queen bee, 

Ask him to plow a forty-acre field, 

By damn, he'll do it. by damn he will. 

He is so great at growing crops 

Of all the world our surplus is tops. 

THERE was a colonel of the infantry 
Who made his living teaching ROTC. 
His shoes were polished with spit and shine. 
His shirts were starched, his seams in line. 
He'd gladly tell you where to go; 
First he'd consult the general, though. 

epilogue to the ppoloque 

AND now I've told you of a few I saw. 

And now I hope you'll view the grave with awe. 



15 



iiliB 



J 



BURN, 

ONE 

OR THREE 

TIMES 

BY PHILIP WATTLEY 




66]||-y God," murmured Siglenski, 
-^"1 "No, it can't be." 

He leaned over the tracking scope 
and looked far and deep into it, a 
horrified expression from his face en- 
graved in the greenish glow emitted 
from the glass. The pings went out 
in an endless lonely reverberating suc- 
cession, oscillating in the endless 
vacuum of space. In sequence with the 
pinging sounds a small spheroid of 
white light was emitted across the 
screen. The light seemed to follow the 
sound in its distant path; but this time 
it did not return, nor meet any re- 
sistance or obstacles: it kept going, 
never to return. It went on its journey 
and faded out of sight and sound 
slowly with a little spark, a small 
sound. The man bent farther 



16 







ILLUSTRATION BY JIM KORTAN 



over the glass and stared deeper into 
the glow but there was nothing. A turn 
of a dial, a flick of a switrh brought 
forth no rhange in the s<^quenre. He 
jerked off his headphones and spun 
around in his chair, his eyes fixed on 
the screen on the opposite wall of the 
stainless steel cubicle. 

Flannigan, by this time, had also 
sensed something and was by his side; 
both men's eyes were fixed on the 
straight beam of light that rotated 
within the eerie bluish glow of the 
screen. The line came around slowly, 
ever so slowly, moving as if on a 
frictionless sea. It was almost there, 
up in the right corner, it came to them. 
Yes, there were the first two, together, 
almost in line. The third came in suc- 
cession. Again there was a slight pause 
CHRONICLE 



and a flickering glow passed almost un- 
noticed. The last two dots of light 
shone brightly, continuing monotonous- 
ly under the beam of light. The sliver 
of white light was allowed to make its 
circular trip three times, and on the 
fourth time the occurrence was the 
same with the exception of the third 
speck of light which flickered for a 
second and then ceased. The overhead 
clock, which was flush in the wall and 
whose hands were now parallel, looked 
down upon the awed expressions of the 
two men as they stood and watched the 
light as if they were fixed indefinitely. 
The Irishman could stand the suspense 
no longer. He turned and made his 
way to the small porthole, followed by 
Siglenski. Through the murky black- 
ness they knew exactly where to look 



for the sphere known to them as home. 
At first glance it almost looked normal, 
but on closer examination the reflected 
light could be seen to flicker for a 
moment, and then it began to turn 
from its sterile white to a light straw 
yellow. The color grew in intensity, 
turning darker into orange and then to 
a dull red formation clouded around 
the glow. Unexpectedly a brilliant flash 
emitted, so blinding that even over the 
great distance the two men had to 
blink to clear their eyes from after 
effects. The intense white light ceased 
very rapidly, as if a great hand had 
snuffed it out: and in its place the 
blackness of eternity filled in. For 
there was nothing, nothing solid, or 
liquid, or gaseous, or living. There 
existed only a / continued on page 38 



17 



"It all began when the turtles decided 
their's was the only way of life." 



fable of the turtles and the bees 



bv dail dixon 





REALLY THKY weren't so different. 
Oh they looked different, but basically 
they wanted the same things out of 
life. Nobody knows why they got 
themselves in the mess they did. Some- 
how it doesn't matter any more, it's 
been thirty-seven years since it hap- 
pened and most folks don't remember. 
Actually it wasn't important; turtles 
and bees who needs them? 

It all began when the turtles decided 
that their way of life (that is carrying 
one's house around on one's back) was 
the only way of life and that it was 
their duty to teach the foolish bees of 
its advantages. With only the bees' 
best interest at heart, they set about to 
educate them. The turtles weren't the 
only ones with lofty ideas, however, for 
at the same time, the bees decided they 
should help the turtles see that the idea 
of each owning his own home was far 
from a satisfactory solution. They too 
were interested in helping their neigh- 
bor, but both sides were so stubborn 
they wouldn't give an inch. This went 
on for years and years, turtles trying 
to help bees, bees trying to help 
turtles. Of course, all along the bees 
realized that turtles would have a hard 
time getting into a home off the 
ground, and turtles realized bees would 
have a hard time flying with shells on 
their backs. However, both sides were 
sure that the change would eventually 
be for the best and the adjustment 
would not be too difficult. Try as they 
might, neither side was able to convert 



the other. After so many years of futile 
effort the bees decided they were going 
to have to use force if they were ever 
to get their idea across. After all, it 
was for the turtles' own good. 
Preparations were made for the attack, 
and as the day dawned swarms of bees 
in combat formation, headed for the 
turtle camp. The turtles, though not 
basically war loving animals, had pre- 
pared themselves for such an eventuali- 
ty. They had perfected dieadyne, a gas 
that was 100^^ deadly to bees. All day 
bees flew over the turtle camp and 
fluttered helplessly to the ground under 
the influence of the deadly gas. By 
nightfall the ground was covered with 
the bodies of dead bees. 
Celebration followed the victory, and 
for three days the turtles drank, 
danced, and made merry. Alas, they 
had forgotten their original intent was 
to help, not kill, the bees. Now, under 
the fog of celebration, they had for- 
gotten. Their happiness was short lived 
though, for word of the dead bees 
reached the local dragon. Bees were 
his favorite dish, and he hastily 
coursed the woods to the scene of the 
great battle. Once there he began 
greedly devouring the bees, and for 
diversion, seemed to find satisfaction 
in hurling the poor turtles, already a 
bit the worse for wear, against some 
nearby rocks. The gay fun went on all 
day until at last all the bees were eaten 
and all the turtles had been crushed on 
the rocks. The dragon lived happily 
ever after. 



18 




PRODUCED BY JOHN MCCARTER 
PHOTOS BY SETH HARRISON 




The Miss South Carolina Pageant 
in Greenville in July proved too 
much for one summer session Clemson 
man to resist. Having the distinctive 
tastes typical of a Clemson country 
gentleman, he was duly appreciative 
of the selection of lovelies which the 
Greenville Jaycees had collected for the 
event. There were blondes, redheads, 
and brunettes of every form and 
fashion, to entice a man's eyes and 
gladden his heart. Less important 
things like hook reports and quizzes 
were forgotten while he thoroughly en- 
joyed himself at this delightful presen- 
tation of the state's most desirable 
darlings. 



The evening gown competition was a 
procession of sixty-six beautiful young 
women floating down the ramp poised 
on their clouds of cloth and glory. They 
showed gracefulness with every soft 
step, and radiated charm with every 
smile. It was a thrill to think of waltz- 
ing with one of them on some Clemson 
dance weekend. 



In ])athing suits, the Palmetto prin- 
cesses were especially alluring, and in- 



spired thoughts of trips to Pawley's 
Island or Ocean Drive where a care- 
free couple could laugh and dream 
in the sun by sparkling sea — where 
moonlight colors the ocean and the 
sand with warm, entrancing hues. 



The talent competition completed the 
picture of each young lady, showing 
the qualities and interests indicative of 
the inner radiance that makes a girl 
more than just beautiful. They demon- 
strated their abilities, ambitions, and 
dreams with poised confidence and 
excellent showmanship. 



Of course, a self-respecting Clemson 
man couldn't be expected to be satis- 
fied with merely seeing and hearing 
these lovely girls from an auditorium 
seat, especially when "a Clemson man 
needs no introduction." With the aid 
of that ingenuity and suavity for which 
Clemson country gentlemen are noted, 
our man soon became acquainted with 
some of the choicest beauties. The 
pageant ended too quickly for him to 
meet all of them, but he returned to 
Clemson with some nice souvenirs and 
many pleasant memories. 



FRESHMAN 

SURVIVAL 

KIT 



a list of things every freshman needs for success at Clemson 



'T'his year as a public service to our 
readers, and in the interest of pro- 
moting public safety, the CHRONICLE 
offers the following helpful hints and 
suggestions as basic requirements for 
the survival of any new RAT. 



YOURSELF — This insignificant article 
is not absolutely necessary if you will 
substitute one year advance tuition; 
however, to avoid any possible incon- 
venience or embarrassment, we suggest 
that you bring yourself. 

CLOTHING— All students are ex- 
pected to wear clothes, except when 
showering. Although it is not required 
in the student regulations, it is re- 
quired by the state of South Carolina. 
Scody tenni-pumps, dilapidated foot- 
ball jerseys, and bermudas in various 
stages of decomposition are currently 
in style. 



PLAYBOY MAGAZINES— A backlog 
of at least two years is considered the 
minimum supply. At the present time 
PLAYBOY is not available in the 
Clemson area. This satirical, attirical, 
and sexual pacesetter will not only 
make you popular with the Playboy- 
less upperclassmen, but will also serve 
as good collateral. 



REBEL CERTIFICATE— A 5 foot by 
3 foot Rebel flag and the ability to 



By Larry Joe Payne 
& Dave Henry 




DRAWING BY DAIL DIXON 



. '. 22 



execute an acceptable Rebel yell are 
the only requirements to qualify for 
this certificate. Of course if the RAT 
has the added stigma of not being from 
the Deep South, he will be expected to 
procure a 6 foot by 4 foot flag and to 
have at least the ability to produce a 
reasonable facsimile of the required 
yell. A triple alliance of the John Birch 
Society. Young Americans for Free- 
dom, and the Rebel Underground are 
responsible for the distribution of these 
certificates which must be procured be- 
fore the first secession meeting of the 
year. 



UI-FI STEREO SET— To impress your 
hall mama, to compete successfully in 
the nightly noise contest, and to soothe 
your conscience while you're not 
studying, are a few of the limitless pos- 
sibilities for vour hi-fi. A MUST FOR 
E.E. MAJORS. 



SHEETS and TOW' EL S— Although 
these items are not absolutely neces- 
sary, they can be helpful (with a little 
ingenuity I . We suggest that you bring 
them if fdr no better reason than to 
pacify your mother. 



LOVE LETTERS— \ backlog of fifty 
or sixty is good for morale, and they 
CHRONICLE 



are excellent documentation for tales of 
your amorous achievements. 

MONEY— The root of all evil (fun) is 
money, even RATS should be capable 
of comprehending this basic fact. 
Dating, drinking, flicks, any collegiate 
activity demands a virtually unlimited 
supply of pecuniary resources. Need 
we say more? 

ONE TRlNK—\n the past, Clemson 
men have found a 6 foot by 3 foot 
trunk to be extremely useful, especiallv 
for the transportation of a willing 
playmate. The Office of Student Af- 
fairs has a limited supply of used 
trunks for sale or rent. 



RAIN DANCE BOOK— Each Thurs- 
day afternoon the R.O.T.C. cadets meet 
on the upper quadrangle to partici- 
pate in their aboriginal rain dance; 
without a book, the RAT will not know 
the correct dance steps — the gods won't 
be jileas«'d — th«' rains will not come — 
and the upperdassmen will inevitably 
expend their wrath upon the hapless 
RATS. 



ONE SISTER— Thh is not a strict ob- 
ligation, it is permissible to bring 
more, just so they measure up (ap- 
proximately .S6-22-35) to the Clemson 
standard. For those luckless RATS that 
don't have and can't borrow a sister 



( anybody's will do) who meets those 
requirements, the CHROMCLE staff 
suggests that you try Carolina. Their 
standards are somewhat lower than 
ours. For the rest of the RATS that 
qualifv. BRING YOUR SISTER DI- 
RECTLY TO THE CHROMCLE OF- 
FICE. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT 
COLLECT S200. 



WE LOVE SLED PIN— To pacify the 
local collegiate law authorities, we sug- 
gest that you contact the Rubble 
Underground (an unsuliversive, far- 
right political organization that is cur- 
rently tunneling its way to notoriety) 
immediately to obtain your pin. 



WATER WINGS— We lost an untold 
number of RATS last year participat- 
ing in a popular Clemson pastime of 
pooling the cheerleaders. In keeping 
with the safety program advocated by 
the administration the staff recom- 
mends that the RATS use waterwings 
during the pooling escapades this 
year. 



OPEN MIND— The staff of the 
CHROMCLE offers one last suggestion 
for incoming RATS. Come to Clemson 
with an open mind. .And we will guar- 
antee that after four years of absorb- 
ing the academic freedom of Clem- 
son. you w ill be graduated w ith a mind 
that is no longer open. 




C'mda pan Kay 



Gentlemen's 




lotography 

by 

Dave Maltby 



Zhe young lady oh these pages lead 

our photographer all over eampus and 

seemed to have a great deal of fun 

doing It. 

She Is CMa pan Kay. a fetching 

Wlnthrop lass, whose hometown Is 

ClemsoH. 




oice 




BOOK REVIEW: 



The Stronger, a novel by Albert 
Camus 

BY BILL MEGGS 

Albert Camus, the world famous 
French writer who ropped the 1957 
Nohel Prize in literature, was greatly 
concerned with fundamental problems 
which have beset mankind from the 
b«'ginning. His widely read novels have 
presented few answers, but they ask 
questions which remain with the reader 
long after the names and faces of 
the characters have faded into dim- 
n<"ss. Camus' basic premise is that one 
should not accept any philosophy of 
life until it has been thoroughly and 
objectively studied. His novels arc 
allegorical quests for something which 
is not, and cannot be found. 



A mother dies on page one, day one, 
of Tilt' Strarificr. There is great pathos 
to be associated with Monsieur Mer- 
sault. but no tears are shed for his 
mother. Instead, his complete indiffer- 
ence to the loss of one so dear as a 
mother arouses the reader's sympathy. 
A quick transformation to the realm of 
suggestion allows the reader to a.s- 
sociale the dead mother with that 
which has liappened to twentieth cen- 
tury Occidentals a degeneration from 
gofilike beings with purposeful exist- 
ence to animals of no more conse- 
quence than fleas and mice. 



Mersault buries his mother and re- 
turns to Algiers, job. and the routine 
of life. On his first day back in the 
city, he meets Marie, an attractive girl 
with '*. . . sun-gold face, lit up with 
desire." The two had worked at the 
same office previously, and she is 
smoothly and efficiently elevated to 
mistre.'^s status. Presently Marie pro- 
poses marriage, but it is impossible for 
Mersault. as a stranger, to experience 
love. Being completely indifferent to 
all things that compose the sham con- 
tinuum of lib-, he is willing to marry 
her if it will make her happy. 



Any mj^nagerie would be shamed 
by the assortment of characters which 
run through the pages of The Stranger. 
A lonesome old man who looks like 
the mange-eaten dog he beats refuses 
to get a new dog when the old one 
h-aves. but chooses to mourn the ugly 
CHRONICLE 



beast. The restauranteur Celeste always 
stands with white apron over his 
paunch to greet those who patronize 
his shop. Raymond, a disillusioned 
man who has learned that his mis- 
tress is doing him dirt, is motivated to 
beat her severely in retaliation. 



The climax of the novel occurs when 
Raymond calls Mersault and asks ac- 
companiment to the shore where Mas- 
son, a friend of Raymond, has a cot- 
tage. Because he has a date with 
Marie. Mersault agrees only on condi- 
tion that she be invited. After the 
party arrives at the beach, the three 
men go for a stroll. Two Arabs, one 
the brother of Raymond's ex-mistress, 
are encountered. In the resulting 
squabble. Raymond is slashed by an 
Arabian knife, and the Arabs scatter 
when Mer.sault draws the revolver that 
Raymond had passed to him. 



Later. Mersault walks one on the 
beach and encounters one of the Arabs. 
A flood of blinding light falls from 
the sky, vivid blazes fly from broken 
glass and shells, and the Arab's jeans 
steam into a blue blur. Seeing the re- 
flection from a knife blade. Mersault 
shoots the Arab, putting shot after shot 
into the body. The sun scene, that is. 
the murder scene, recalls Plato's '"AHe- 
gory of the Cave." The great chaos of 
the blinding sun is such that no focus 
can be had. The world appears to be 
irrational; to shoot a man is an act 
which neither has. nor needs, com- 
prehension. 



The final portion of The Stranger 
deals with the murder trial. Mersault 
feels that there is a conspiracy to ex- 
clude him from his trial, that he is to 
have no say. and that his fate is to be 
decided out of his hands. 



Camus presents a stranger who is 
unable to plod through life as many 
clods do. but nni>>t question his raisun 
d'etre. In the closing pages he makes 
no attempt to give answers, and here 
lies his weakness. Mersault's satisfac- 
tion in execution must he in the joy 
that he can give to a huge crowd of 
spectators as they greet his death with 
howls of execration. 



The Stranger should be read, not 
read about. The very few hours needed 
to read this short novel are well spent, 
for the author successfully induces an 
emotional catharsis in the reader. 



SKELTON 
HOME & AUTO, INC. 



DOWNTOWN CLEMSON 
654-2035 




high performance tires 
at low economy 
prices for 

COMPACTS 
AND IMPORTS 




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• GENERAL ELECTRIC APPLIANCES 

• GOODYEAR TIRES & BATTERIES 

• GUARANTEED RECAPPING 

• GUARANTEED USED APPLIANCES 



27 



THE VOICE 

(A statement of necessitarianism) 



In the beginning Whoeveritwas 

cupped his hands together and blew 

out into not yet even nothingness 

and into this not even space l)lew 

e=;mc- 

nonconservation of parity 

N-space 

and all the other laws and rules to run it. 

And then He made all the inconsequential 

things and the almost inconsequential 

things, 
the people. 

r^inally as an afterthought 
into this not even nothingness, Whoeveritwas 

threw 
a voice and then 

the wind parted the clouds but he was already 
gone. 

I think continually of those who truly had the voice. 
It was thrown on them for no special reason, 
and most of them died in its supernatural light. 

Lord, don't let the fire go out. 
Two handfuls of fallen leaves ago 
my father made it 

and now I must keep it burning. 
* * * 

Shovel the coal always into the boiler. 
It carries us across the country. 
If the fire goes out 

1 will have to walk and it is a long way to 

Johnston Station or Armageddon 
And I have forgotten how to walk. 
Lord, don't let the fire go out. 



We have carried the torch in our hands through 

the rains and the ages of disappointment, 

and it is all we have had. 

Lord, let the embers burn on. 

Let us transfer the promise. 

Lord, don't let the fire go out. 



Far out in some land of famine and desolation 

a gypsy woman sings 

all alone 

and she has the voice. 

Sing, sweetness, to the last palpitation of 

the evening and the breeze. 
"And we will watch the fall day swoon and die 
y=r sin wt 
In the beginning 
my soul was scraped off the ceiling of the 

Sistine Chapel. 



John Fowler 



28 



SHAFT 

In little wordless words 

Of silent ecstasy 

The cooing of the birds 

My true love gave to me. 

Her lips, they begged for kisses sweet. 

Her misty eyes for love. 

Her gentle spirit did entreat 

And beg like a wild dove. 

But oh, that dear mouth framed 

Words that made me numb. 

When suddenly my dear exclaimed : 

"Get lost, you bum!" 

John Fowler 




MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY 

A knowing innocence arrays your face. 
\^ hat thoughts are hid behind your lustroys eyes; 
Do they transgress the bounds of youthful grace, 
And take the age-old form of women's guise? 



Is love to you a game of foolish hearts, 
A game from which no la.<ting prize is seen? 
Or do you love for love's own sake, and part 
From all of that which does true love demean 



Your beauty would delight the hearts of all 
Who know the measure of true beauty's worth. 
The lure of wealth to men in vain would call. 
If you they'd choose as treasure of the earth. 

^ ou ha\ f a strange, mysterious look unknown 
To me; 1 cannot read what lies within. 
As some might a.sk. are you a woman grown. 
Or just a girl who's ready to begin? 



Frank Pearce 



29 



The Other Side of YHTaOq 



Variations on olde themes and othe 
By Dirty Dail Dixon 



junk 



Fall 1963 

September 

October 

November 

and December 

in eternal sequence 

bringing with them 

Fall 

Fall air 

Fall leaves 

Fall clothes 

and 

436 damn pop quizzes 



Jack be nimble 

Jack be quick 

walked fifty miles 

with a walking stick 

so did Teddy 

and 

Bobby 

and Caroline 



Twinkle twinkle little star 
how I W'onder where you are 
up above the earth so high 
probably more than 37 miles 



Georgie Porgie puddin' and pie 
kissed the girls and made them cry 
or thats what his lawyer says 




Sing a song of sixpence 

pocket full of rye 

4 and 20 coeds 

drunk but oh my 

early in the morning 

they all began to cry 

wasn't that a funny thing to do before a quiz? 



ha 

ha ha 

ha ha ha 

ha ha ha ha 

ha ha ha ha ha 

A in Statics 

ha 



30 





A college: 



TWiS IS A College: . C?) it is Rdr Pfeopuc, 
People wwo have. Fx*^iti^ pboscems .like wrrW 

uncle: SAM^ PEOPLt WHO Do»g^ WAKT TO Go TO 
WORk, Af^D PE43PLE WUO WAkfT/V HlGHEe($)Et^X>»TkjO. 
TMEV AH_ V/AMT TO RECCKTSiDEI?. 

P*<»E (i> o>je 




THIS IS A FRESUMAKJ. He is FRE-sh 

VROM High -school amd fresh into 
College. Me is fcesw «t otwer times, 
Too, Ovrr that's betweekj Him amd me.c<. 

THE FCESMAKl ISM'TDUt>^e>,3-'Sr QONTS-rseD. 



CHRONICLE 



GREASV 5H((7n>.l 




GREASEV HAlKVOO '' 



Grease V <ids stuff 
GREASEY Comb 



GKEASev OEAt^iS 



A MISCHOOLMAIRS/MABRVLUS 



TUlS \S AtslOWfeR TREtSMVAAM. WiS NAME IS 
UAKtSv-. V4ARRV WAS A B>G WHEEi- IN HIGH 
SCHOOL T HACBV LIVCEOTVIAT. HAREV WOuUD 

Kathee be back, im VI\<SH school., MEKjmuv 
HE Stii_i_ is. SroDE^rrs, wi-sH We. was t-qo/ 
Pf^e (3) tucee 



31 



Receoivk; Umbliuc 



Woeu Rin3 




TME INTELLECTUAU 

TMt5 IS ANOTVAEE. FeE«MAt4. HE i4 A BRAIN, UlS 
CoL.l-6<3«. RflARD SOtTSTE. W*3 <175. THAT3 PTSETTV 

Good our of A PBsrbiBuE. Xooj' ME 13 5ma«t, Bor 

ME OOEStJ'T \<NOW UoW TO PL>V 6K| DOE , CHUG-A-UG 

OK TWi-:sr. 300KJ ME- Vlu. BE SMAKVEe. 
PA<k».(4^fooe 




PKE.-SHMANJ 



THIS IS A Gieu FRE-SWMAN.6UE 1-8 CALLED A 

CaED- Me-R name is WAUDAUNE GUMCU. WEI? 
College Boaro scaae was oMuv 97 f How 

OlO SHE EVER <3ET \^4 ? Tt2V ADDING UP 
2)t - 22 - 3>V I I Don't MiNjo , DO Vtou r 
R.Ge(.5)F\v;e 









PROTE-ST- 




ik ^^ 




w ^^ 








l| 




err? '^^^h^ 




TRADITION (?) 


IT IS TEAOITION THAT ALL BgE 


■SHMAtsl 


HAVE TME\R WEADS SHAVED y AFTER THAT, 


THEV ARE RATsf THE CoEp Does mot 14 AVE. 


Her Mead swavex?, because she. v/oold not 


UOOK LIKE a rat. SHE WOOLD LOOK UKE- 


A SEX-V, BALD-HEADED WOMAKlf 




REGlSTR/:^lON 

Registration is Contusion spelled in an 

QRGANIZEJ3 MAKINEK. THE STUDEkJT IS 
^^yHlSKED RAPltiLV THOjuGM A ■i>E:R(ES 
or -SIMPLE STEPS TO SUODENLV FIND 
THAT ME HAS StJMEONE. ElSE'5 CACOsf 
7 



32 



SCUE.DULES 
Aft. MAX« 5 



L iaetAL A« rs 

HOUCXW - rc> OOr-. OtXAttta 



ARCuiTE crocs 

9CH6«>ULt 




CLASSES 



CLASSES ARC OBGAMIZEO "TO GIVE TME. 

Strogclimg College SruosKrr ample time. 

TO DCVCTTE. "TO OLITSIDE. "arUOlES lOmZACDKKlCulAe 
AC-nvi-nE5,AND OR PFRSOiAi- MEEUS . -TAKE 
VOUU PiCWC OF TWO Y 

T 




DORMITORIES: MiCX>LC CusGS 

THE AVEI340E SruDOJT is .OumE NAnjeAU-V, 
Wolfed im an avecmse ooKw,AFFecnou.TLV 

kCKjOWKl AS TME-'- TIN CAJJg ' fPtt)6ASW 0E.R>VEI> 
FROM -THE. SAISDIME FtHUviS AWO TWS TlNMV 
90WWD Mi^StC HAS ARtR B^-SilMG-lWXJGH-WEVyluJ) 




L4UJ H 



DORMITORIES : UPFtR CRUST 

OW EyEOV CAMPUS TUECE. ARE THOSe "poBMS " 
LIKE OflPTUE waldrof Astoria : SUCH APE 

TVE-' ^IEW PORVtft . TUESE ARE KESCRVEO roe 
FPESHMEKJ T»5EvllOCe><3E.THOX LITTLE 15 *<NflWM 

/\6(xjrA(JD THOSE NOTHIMG C4*si BE Dome about f 
10 




DORMITORIES : BARRACKS 

ORlG\NAU-V OESIGNET) AS Po.W. UoOSItJG, 
THESE EABRACk-5 BECAME. COIZM \T£5R\ES 
OHUV AFTER TME. GoVECMEKir FAIUEO TO 
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-MH-NTT TOWEIRS, 

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CHRONICLE 



33 




Quadra KiGLE 



TME QUADEAKJGL£,FORTHEUKj|NjiT(ATEO, IS 
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f2 




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AS A FOREWAENING: Vou WIU- HEAK'TAl-k 
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34 




ADMINISTRATION 



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16 




SOCIAL LIFE 



CAMPVJS SoaAU IS A MAKJV PACE D TH (WG ? 

All 6i_awk. The stvjpemt rtA:s a wide. 

VARlETV OFTHlKlG-S TS OCCoPV Hrs -SB*iE.Ej' 
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EVANINATIONS ? 



AS A VEBV SPECIAL TREAT ,To ROUWO OUT 
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TVudtK 'PUBUCArioOtS LTD. 



CHRONICLE 



35 




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HEY! Don't forget our $2! 



THE FRESHMAN 

By Tom Cork 

Birth, kindergarten, fir?t grade, junior high, high school, 
senior year, graduation. 1 am everything; I am omniscient. 
My shirt hangs heavy with my high school awards. Citizen- 
ship Award, salutatorian. track medals, foothall honors. 
Beta CIul). The world is at my feet; it is my plaything. I am 
the possessor of a high school diploma, accepted hv an in- 
stitution of higher learning. I am omnipotent. The great 
me; surely I mu.st he a person of outstanding character, look 
at my accomplishments. My record speaks for it.self. 

(College. I am now a freshman. 1 am the proud pos- 
sessor of a hald head, a rat cap. numerous text hooks which 
undoulitahly will he no challenge, dreams, desires, hopes. I 
will he a lawyer, an engineer, a doctor, politician; I know 
that I will he a success. The firs^t quiz; my dream world 
is shattered. Suddenly I am nothing, I am ignorant. The 
great me of high school is no more; despair, frustration, 
procrastination. .Surely I can hring my grades up on the 
semester exams. Disaster! My grades are low. What will 
my parents, my friends, my coach, my preacher, what will 
they say? 

.Shame. Surely I will he scorned, ignored, despised. My 
future looks hlack; I am a failure. 

Suddenly a glint of light, understanding, confidence, 
.self discipline, responsihility. I am the world's disciple; the 
world's student. I am the key that must open the doors. 

But most important, i am me. the individual, formulat- 
ing my own philosophies, ideas, desires. For hetter or worse, 
in success or failure, in life or death, I am, and always will 
be, only me. 



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CHRONICLE 



37 



BURN 

continued from page 17 

vacuum of time and empty endless 
space. 



The day had ended with the heat and 
glare of a broiling sun as it sank lower 
in the western horizon. Another day 
was ending, and the leaves became still 
and hushed on the oaks: man and ani- 
mal creeped as if going into a long 
hibernation, for the day had been al- 
most unbearable with the sun beating 
down showing no mercy. With the 
coming of evening the heavens toward 
the east took on an appearance of 
coolness, with the evening star already 
hung like a distant light in the skv. 



In a sprawling suburb of Los An- 
geles, the split level homes stood on the 
cliffs, accenting the cool green lawns 
and winding drives. From one of these 
homes a little six-year-old girl ran out 
into the street and was killed instantly. 
Farther eastward in the plains states a 
farmer had come in from viewing his 
withering wheat fields; for him. it was 
all over also. He had been hoping for 
too long for a bank extension, for a 
good crop, now even for rain: but he 
had lost, and the world would soon 
en°;ulf him also. 



On the west side of Chicago the 
coolness of the sky seemed to wring the 
heat from the brick buildings. An 
Italian and a Puerto Rican came upon 
one another, and the natural hatred 
instilled in them flared up; a glint of 
steel appeared and within that minute 
second of time a life was taken. The 
Puerto Rican lay on the curb, his life 
gone, as the other faded back into the 
shadows of the city to escape, to live 
a while longer. A businessman in New 
Haven came home to face the bills 
that had accumulated over the past 
week; he cast them aside and poured 
himself another drink. Through a 
small doorway that had been left open 
to welcome any cool breeze that might 
enter, the voice of a blues singer 
drifted out onto one of the winding 
l)ackstreets of Paris. \^ ithin, the piano 
hacked out a jazz tune backing up the 
blonde crooner; while the bass was 
cool and sweet, sounding out its mel- 
ancholy notes. In the corner of the 
room two young lovers sat at a small 
table, having eyes only for each other; 
the flickering candle accented their 
smiling faces. In the Vatican a priest 



was preparing for the mass of the fol- 
lowing dav. 



The innocent, the tough, the dedi- 
cated, the sweet, the average, none 
had any real inclination to think or 
care for tomorrow. For the most part, 
life had seemed to flow into a mold, 
but it was the way of man that this 
way of living could not continue. Man 
was ruthless, his doctrines had been 
set. The opposition had been formed 
and there was no preventing nor stop- 
ping the outcome which was in the 
near future. The slaughter of war had 
taken place, liut life still continued; 
man was always on the defensive and 
had taken measures for this continuous 
annihilation, hut now he w£is so 
mechanized, so advanced that complete 
destruction was beyond his compre- 
hension, although he refused to admit 
it. He plodded ahead pushing his be- 
liefs. 



The day had ended for most, nothing 
changing in the daily monotonv of 
their lives. It was summer and thev 
wished for nothing more than a chance 
to rest, rest for the coming day. a 
small chance to catch their breath in 
order to continue. They have had 
their times of happiness and mis- 
fortune; they have lived and fought, 
sometimes against others, mostly with- 
in themselves. It really didn't matter, 
it had been going on for centuries. 
\^ ho was going to change anvthing? 
\^ ho would bother? Who cared? For a 
few it would end tonight, for the others 
it would end later. 



It happened in a split second, and 
there was no stopping it. for that was 
the way it had been planned. In a 
barren and desolate piece of the earth 
the radar turned with awesome 
eveness. scanning the space for an 
enemy, for that was what had been 
instilled into it. Built in was no love, 
no understanding, only the intent to 
kill, destroy, to hunt out. It may have 
been a mistake, but who can tell. There 
was no stopping it, for in its own lan- 
guage it transmitted the word of death 
throughout the complicated mass of 
computers. The message was received 
and the sense of the kill was amplified. 
Somewhere the control of man was lost, 
for in that instant no committee could 
be summoned. It had started and only 
the end would cease its action. The 



reels on the computers whirled with 
great intensity now, the relays 
chattered, and within an instant a de- 
cision was made and transmitted. Half- 
way around the planet a long steel 
door parted and let forth its contents. 
The towering sliver of steel hesitated 
for a moment and then rose in the 
night air. 



The cry of the little girl, the running 
footsteps on the pavement, the cool 
sweet sound of the bass could still be 
heard when it came. There was no 
escape; for most of it was over in an 
instant. The ground parted to the 
depths of hell, and out bellowed the 
gas and fire of death. Run! Run 
where ; escape ? There was none. Every- 
thing was annihilated: man and his 
world were being destroyed by his 
own will. He had constructed destruc- 
tion with his own hands and now he 
was trying to escape from it, but he 
had come to perfect it. and the tables 
were turned on master and his ma- 
chine. Some would die quickly in the 
center of the holocaust, the rest would 
have their lives snuffed out by the 
aftereffects soon to follow. 



The Australian farmer looked up 
from his early morning plowing and 
gazed toward the muffled roar that 
seemed to be coming from the first 
rays of the rising sun over his shoulder 
to the east. The sky seemed to change 
from the pale blue, mixed with the 
golden streaks of dawn, to a dull crim- 
son, which was transformed to a pale 
white for just an instant. The peasant 
farmer gazed at the changing color of 
the sky for a moment as its color was 
beautiful in an awesome way. but with- 
in a few seconds the beauty of the sight 
became a horror within him. His 
breathing became increasingly harder, 
and what little air there was became 
hotter. He opened his collar as if to 
bring a breath of air but it was to no 
avail. He was now gasping for air, 
fighting for air. fighting for some 
chance. He turned as to come into a 
pocket of air. stumbling over the 
plowed ground as he went. He stumbled 
for the last time and his lifeless body 
fell to the dusty earth that had been 
his only means of support and that 
would soon claim him. For over the 
horizon the dull red mass was growing 
with intensity: within a few seconds 
the fiery hell would change the oceans 
to violent steam and the ground to a 
molten mass, disintegrating the world 
into minute particles bringing forth the 



38 



end that had lasted only 
seconds. 



few 



The hands on the clock had now 
parted slightly and the Polack and the 
Irishman turned away from the port- 
hole, for now nothing remained to he 
seen in the total darkness and empty- 
ness of the vacuum. The white light 
that had been known as home was 
gone, gone forever. Man had been in- 
tent on destruction and his purpose 
had been achieved, only now there 
were only two witnesses to his exploit. 
They were the only humans alive in 
their steel entrapment far from the last 
will of man on earth. 



They would live for a while longer 
and would eventually take to the sav- 
ageness of their fellow man, survival 
of the fittest; but here in the endless 
eternity of space there would be no 
survival, only an extension of time 
would prevail. 



The radio was now silent, except for 
the eerie static that came periodically; 
the white sliver of light still continued 
on its path, slowly rotating on its axis. 
The hands of the clock had parted 
enough to distinguish that a few 
minutes had departed, time slid by. 
and out in the darkne.'ss eight shining 
forms of mass continued on, all but 
one, the burned one. 





"Th* Mtnt ol' thing brealifatf, lunch, and 
tuppar. Why can't we have tomcfhing 
b«iidai virgins?" 

CHRONICLE 



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"Oh, doctor," asked the anxious 
woman on the phone, "did I leave 
my panties at your office?" 

The reply was in the negative. 

"Oh, then I must have left them 
by the dentist's." 



A gullible man is one who thinks 
his daughter has religion when she 
comes home with a Gideon Bible in 
her suitcase. 



A reporter had been sent to cover 
a great mine disaster. He was so im- 
pressed by what he saw that he 
tried to indicate all the emotions and 
heroism that he saw around him in 
that vast panorama of death. 

In o telegram to his editor 
began, "God sits tonight on a 
hill overlooking the scene of 
disaster." 



he 
ttle 
the 



Immediately his editor wired 
back: "Never mind disaster — inter- 
view God. Get pictures if possible." 



A drunk fell on his pocket flask 
and smashed it, naturally lacerating 
his posterior regions. Upon arriv- 
ing home he was afraid to awaken 
his wee (300-pound) wife. So he 
procured band-aids and mirror and 
proceeded to apply first-aid. Came 
the dawn his wife shook him awake 
and nagged, "Were you drunk last 
night?" 

"Oh, no!" reassured her soggy 
spouse. 

"Oh, yeah?" crowed wee wifey. 
"Then what are the band-aids doing 
on the mirror?" 



A farmer, wishing to increase his 
livestock, placed his sow in a wheel- 
barrow and trundled her to his 
neighbor's farm, where he placed 
her in the pen with the friend's boar. 
Returning her to her own pen, he 
waited the prescribed time. When no 
additions appeared in her pen, he 
placed her in the wheelbarrow 
again and repeated the procedure. 
Still no success. After waiting the 
prescribed time after a third such 
episode, he asked his wife at the 
breakfast table if she noticed any of 
the signs that they were looking for. 

Looking out the window, she re- 
plied, "No, but she's back in the 
wheelbarrow." 




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Cftronicle 



qiiBI^TJW3^ 




DECEMBER 1963 




WATCH FOR 







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i 



Editor's Notes 



IT IS THE SEASON 
TO BE JOLLY, 
TRA-LA-LA 



J. hings were just ahout to gt't back to normal around here after the Thanks- 
giving Holidays when we found that is nearly time to leave again for 
the Christmas Holidays, it would be nice if the administration just combined 
these two holidays and let us have the whole month of December off in- 
stead of interrupting with two and a half weeks of school in December. 
Maybe one of these days . . . 

The Christmas season is nearly upon us again and thoughts are turning 
towards bottles, babes and presents. To add a little fun and frolic to the 
holiday cheer, we have concocted this little magazine of wine (actually 
grape juice), women and song I afraid you will ha\e to make up your own). 

Leading off this issue, we have a hint of what jolly old Saint Nick can 
give Clemson for Christmas: a student center. Mike Finch, a fourth year 
Architecture major from Takoma Park. Maryland, did a fine job of present- 
ing plans for this badly needed facility. A young man better known to our 
readers as a poet — John McCarter. a senior English major — provides us with 
a poignant story of the Christmas sea.son in The Yulctidc Stranger. Bill Meggs. 
a regular contributor, recounts a day in the life of two young people in the 
big city with And Then There Was Love. A touch of humor is interjected 
with Hold flif^h the Basket Red. and Phony Wolf. A Story. Larry Joe Payne, 
one of our editors, wrote this Salingerish parody of that well-known child's 
classic. The work of Will Jordan appears for the first time in the Chronicle 
with a story of leave-taking in The Last Day. The artistic ability of the young 
people of this country are displayed in a pictorial feature: Young Ameri- 
cans, 1962. 

In this issue we are beginning a regular column edited by Buddy Bryan, 
another of our editors. It is a general mixture of anything and everything 
anybody wants to write. And then, naturally, there are the regular sec- 
tions. Gentlemen's Choice features a comely co-ed. Clara Jones from Clemson. 
The Other Side of Poetry is complete with a map for those of you with no 
better place to go. 

That, in brief, is this issue. We think it is one that you will enjoy. 
Please let us hear your comments on the mag. We try to be open-minded 
here, so any, suggestions or editorial contributions are most welcome. 

Meanwhile, study hardily and try to have a sane Christmas and a not 
too insane New Year's. \^'e would hate to lose any of our readers. — MDM 



CHRONICLE 




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Editor 



GEOFF GROAT 

Managing Editor 



BOBBY WILEY 

Business Manager 



DAIL DIXON 

Art Director 



CHARLES BRYAN 

Copy Editor 



LARRY PAYNE 

Humor Editor 



HARRY SUBER 

Circulation Manager 



GLENN SMOAK 
RAY AYRES 

Advertising Managers 



JIM MCCONNELL 

Promotions 



BOARD OF CRITICS 

John McCarter 

Dendy Sloan 

Tom Young 

Jim McConnell 



CONTRIBUTORS 

Robert Oliver III 

Rob Bryan 

Bruce Geible 

John Oakley 

Rob Mac 

Ed Sumulski 

Michael Finch 

Peggy Townsend 

William Grindley 

Will Jordan 

Mark Millbourn 

Lydia Threatt 

Ashley Paulk 

Harry Townsend 

Tom Cork 

Tommy Samaha 



MARK STEADMAN 

Faculty Advisor 



Cl^ronicle 



DECEMBER 1963 



VOL. IV, NO. 2 



CONTENTS FOR 


CLEMSON'S VARIETY MAGAZINE 




4 


Editorial 




6 


Patter 


Michael Finch 


9 


Clemson Student Union 




13 


The Importance of Sin 


John McCarter 


14 


The Yuletide Stranger 




15 


Gentlemen's Choice 


Larry Joe Payne 


19 


Hold High the Basket Red 
and Phony Wolf, A Story 


William Jordan 


20 


The Last Day 




22 


Poetry 




24 


Other Side of Poetry 


Bill Meggs 


25 


And Then There Was Love 




26 


Young Americans, 1963 


Lydia Threatt 


31 


53 Things To Do Between Classes 




OUR COVER: Artist Rob Mac using Clemson's own 
bearded profit Mac Quattlebaum as a model has 
come up with the Chronicle's version of a con- 
temporary Saint Nick. 



The Chronicle is an official student publication of Clemson College, published quarterly in September, 
December, March, and May by the Calhoun Literary Society. Address all correspondence to the 
Chronicle, Box 2186, College Station, Clemson, South Carolina. Student subscriptions are paid for 
through the student activities fee. Other subscription rates: U.S. and possessions: one year $2.00; 
Canada and the Pan American Union countries: $2.50; all other foreign countries: $3.00. Second-class 
postage paid at Clemson, South Carolina (permit pending). The editors reserve the right to reject 
any contribution and make any changes in editorial contributions. The opinions, ideas, and con- 
victions expressed herein, in no way reflect the opinions, ideas, and/or convicitions of the student 
body. They have no opinions, ideas, and/or convictions! National Advertising Representatives: College 
Magazines, Inc., 11 West 42nd Street, New/ York 36, New York. Member: Associated Collegiate 
Press. Printed by offset in the U.S.A. 



Editorial 



Let's Get Rid of the Semester System 



The present nine months, two semester, 
school year is an antiquated system. 
It is a product of an agrarian society 
when the young people were needed 
during the summer months to help out 
on the farm. Society has since become 
urban for the most part and summer 
vacation is not always justifiable. 

The semester system is indeed a poor 
one. The first semester is broken by 
Thanksgiving and Christmas Holidays. 
As most of you know from your own 
experience, it is extremely easy to slack 




off during the holidays, especially dur- 
ing Christmas. When school resumes, 
it is very difficult to get back into the 
academic mood before final exams hit 
you in the face two weeks later. 

The second semester is not as bad 
here as in many schools, where the 
term is broken by spring vacation. 
Here at Clemson, we have only about 
a week for Easter. We would venture 
to say that because of the relatively 
uninterrupted term of instruction in 
the second semester it ends with better 



thet reu. /vxf \ 

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grades being obtained than in the 
first semester. 

Something needs to be done about 
the present system, because it does not 
make effective use of the time involved. 
It would be a rather simple matter to 
switch over to the trimester system, 
which has been successfully adopted at 
many colleges and universities in this 
country. 

The trimester plan calls for three 
terms running through the year with at 
least a one week break between terms. 
The fall trimester begins the first week 
in September and ends at the Christ- 
mas Holidays. The winter trimester 
begins shortly after the first of Janu- 
ary and extends into mid-April. The 
spring term starts in April and con- 
cludes in early August. The number of 
class days in each trimester is com- 
parable to the number in the semester. 

The same amount of work is also 
covered in each trimester as in the 
semester, and credits from a semester 
are transferrable to credits for a 
trimester. 

Attendance at all three terms is 
optional for the student. He may decide 
to attend all three terms each year thus 
completing requirements for a bache- 
lor's degree in two and two-thirds 
years. Or he may elect to attend only 
two trimesters, choosing any trimester 
for a vacation. 

The trimester has other advantages 
also. For the student who must work 
during one term to pay for school, it 
allows a longer work period during the 
summer months (from mid-April to 
early September) . It also gives him the 
opportunity of taking his vacation 
when the job market is less glutted 
with students. 

We think that this is an excellent 
system, for not only would it be of 
benefit to the students, but it would 
also be advantageous to the faculty and 
administration. The administration 
would do well to consider the trimester 
system as a replacement for the inef- 
fective and worn out semester system. 



Mountain girl: "Doctah, Ah cum to 
see y'all about ma Grandmaw. We 
gotta do somethin 'bout her smokin'." 

Doctor: "'Oh now Elviry, don't you 
worry about that. Lots of women 
smoke." 

Elviry: "Yeah, I know, but Grand- 
maw inhales." 

Doctor: "I still wouldn't fret. Lots of 
women inhale." 

Elviry: "Yeah, I know, but Grand- 
maw don't exhale." 



"Hell, partner, what did you bid no 
trump on? I had three aces and all 
four kings." 

"Well, if you really want to know — 
one jack, two queens, and four drinks." 



Then there was the little boy sitting 
across from an old lady chewing 
bubble gum. After about fifteen min- 
utes, the old woman said with an in- 
tense look, "It's nice for you to try 
and start a conversation, but I'm 
deaf." 



There had been an accident. It was 
the old thing — a college student's con- 
vertible had collided headon with the 
farmer's Model A. The two drivers got 
out and surveyed the damage. 

"Well," said the farmer, "we may as 
well have a drink." He hauled out a 
bottle and passed it to the student who 
gulped down a stiff one. 

The farmer calmly returned the 
bottle to his pocket. 

"Aren't you going to have one?" 
asked the BMOC. 

"Don't believe I will," was the an- 
swer, "until the police have checked 
up." 



1st man: Hey, are you afraid of 
elephants? 

2nd man: Naw, I'm tattooed. 

1st man: What's that got to do with 
elephants? 

2nd man: I've got "Clemson men 
don't drink" written on my chest and 
even elephants won't swallow that. 



A deaf little old lady entered a 
church with an ear trumpet. Soon 
after she seated herself, an usher tip- 
toed over and whispered — "One toot 
and out you go!" 



Prosecutor: "Now tell the jury the 
truth, please! Why did you shoot your 
husband with bow and arrow?" 

Defendant: "I didn't want to wake 
the children." 
CHRONICLE 



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where you 
are or what 
you are doing . . . 




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CLEMSON ANDERSON 




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And most wanted, the year roundl 

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G. H. BASS & CO., 1213 Main Street, Wilton, Moil 



THE CULTURAL PARADOX 

In the November issue of Harper's, 
I recently read an article by Russell 
Lynes titled "Is Kindness Killing The 
Arts?" I had often heard and read 
pieces with the theme that the arts 
were being stifled through lack of 
resources and interest. Now Lynes 
was contending, and with much 
authority, that artists (musicians, 
writers, etc.) were being discouraged 
because of improperly placed 
emphasis. 

The majority of the people in this 
country can be placed in a group 
which Lynes calls the "Who, me?" 
people. This segment of the popu- 
lace has no feeling at all for the arts. 
They are not promoters or detractors, 
only indifferent to all aspects of 
culture. 

In contrast to this "Who, me?" 
group are the people who Lynes 
calls the "Genteel" group. They are 
the promoters and the financial 
backers of the arts. They go to con- 
certs, art exhibits, and poetry read- 
ings because they feel this is a basic 
responsibility just as important as 
sending their children to school. The 
members of this group attempt to 
surround themselves with an aura 
of culture with which to impress 
themselves and others. 

This "Genteel" group has what 
may be called a "nickel-knowledge" 
of the arts. That is they know the 
names of quite a few artists, au- 
thors, and composers. They even 
know the names of the works of 
some of these men, but most of 
them fail to understand that these 
artistic creations are not just ab- 
stract obscurities too complicated for 
them to understand. Works of art 
are the only reflections of the cul- 
mination of the human mind. Com- 
plete ecstasy and/or total dispair 
can be preserved forever in a short 
story by Poe or a painting by Renoir. 
Culture must be placed in a 
proper relationship with the other 
aspects of life before it can reach 
its true potential. Educators and 
other supporters of the arts must rea- 
lize that culture can not be spoon- 
fed to the masses. In time, perhaps, 
every segment of the populace will 
come to understand and love some 
part of what we call the higher arts. 



Edited by Buddy Bryan 



JAMES BALDWIN 

Another Country, by James Baldwin 

(Dial Press. 366 pp.) 

James Baldwin is well known for 
the acidity of his comments to the 
press concerning the status of his 
race in America. He writes with 
power, wit, charm, and conversely, 
with vulgarity seldom surpassed in 
contemporary letters. Though he 
conveys a powerful message, he 
manages to sustain a high level of 
entertaining narrative which is often 
lost among those who write with 
purpose. 

Another Country is divided into 
three books. The first is without a 
doubt one of the greatest novelettes 
ever written. It stands singularly as 
Nobel Prize material. The second 
two books are variations on a then 
all too familiar theme. They become 
vulgar, repetitious, and boring. For 
this reason, only the first book, 
"Easy Rider," will be commented 
upon. 

"Easy Rider" is the story of Rufus, 
a New York City Negro who plays 
the jazz drums for a living and is 
in love with life. He loves a white 
woman, and she in turn wants to 
cross the race lines to live with him. 
This she does, and they move in to- 
gether; but they cannot adjust to the 
social shome of white on black. 
Rufus begins to beat her, they fight, 
and both go out of their minds. 
Rufus goes underground for a few 
days, much to the misery of his black 
beauty sister Ida and his white 
friends Vivaldo, Cass, and Richard. 

Rufus is the victim of a society 
which imposes more which he can 
neither understand nor abide by. He 
cannot understand why he is black 
and why that makes something 
wrong with him, something innately 
wrong with his very existence in this 
world. He feels like someone who is 
blind and who keeps screaming into 
the darkness: "Why me?" It is more 
than he can bear. The utter despair 
Rufus feels is perfectly conveyed to 
the reader in one of the most moving 
scenes ever written, when he walks 
to the center of a bridge and ad- 
dresses himself to God. "Ain't I your 
baby, too?" he asks. He leaps from 
the bridge, and so ends the life of 
Rufus. — Bill Meggs 



The death of Rufus is a real trage- 
dy, for the reader has come to know 
and love hinn, in spite of his black 
skin. Author Baldwin has so skill- 
fully portrayed Rufus that even a 
die-hard racist would like, even love 
him. The problem is that Rufus dies 
on page 78 of a 366-page book, 
and no one can replace him. This 
book should have been 78 pages 
long, and the title should have been 
Ain't I Your Baby, Too? 

BOB DYLAN 

Gaining more and more acclaim 
in the folk music field is Bob Dylan, 
22, who has written more than 300 
songs. Among these are Blowin' in 
the Wind and Don't Think Twice, It's 
All Right, made popular by Peter, 
Paul, and Mary. He has recorded 
two albums, the first titled simply 
Bob Dylan, the second The Free- 
wheelin' Bob Dylan. The latter con- 
sists for the most part of songs of 
his own composition. His voice is 
not good by anyone's standards, but 
he more than makes up for this in 
the amount of feeling he puts into 
his songs. Dylan feels strongly what 
he sings, and has the unique gift of 
being able to transmit this to the 
listener. He makes some bitter com- 
ments on the world of today which 
ring all too true. His subject matter 
runs the gamut from love to racial 
equality to war; he is a singer of the 
times. He accompanies himself on 
the guitar and a harmonica is wired 
around his neck. His unique musical 
sound and the very penetrating 
lyrics of his songs have given to Bob 
Dylan's work an honesty seldom 
found in music today. He is a folk 
singer in the truest sense. 

Blowin' in the Wind, recently fea- 
tured in Peter, Paul, and Marys 
latest album, has become a very 
popular song. Few people realize, 
however, the implications contained 
in its lyrics. In actuality it is a 
pointed protest against racial preju- 
dices, wars, and our indifference to 
world problems. 

Dylan offers a question to all 
America in these lines from the song: 

How many years can some 
people exist 

Before they're allowed to be 
free? 

In other words, how long will the 
American Negro continue to be de- 
nied his basic freedoms. 

He poses another question in this 
verse: 



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How many times must a man 
look up 

Before he can see the sky? 

How many ears must one 
man have 

Before he can hear people 
cry? 

What he tries to bring out in this 
verse is a very obvious and ironic 
truth: most people, now and always, 
are oblivious to the problems of 
their fellow humans. 

In the final chorus he says: 



How many deaths will it take 
till he knows 

That too many people have 
died? 

The answer, my friend, is 
blowin' in the wind. 

The question here seems to be: 
how long will the countries of the 
world continue to improve methods 
of war before they realize that it 
must not be? 

The answers to these three 
questions are as unattainable as is a 
tumbleweed blowing in the wind. 
—Mark Millbourn 



Graduating Seniors 




I/U 



I 



^A_.J 



SYMBOL OF STRENGTH 



THE COLLEGE GRAD PLAN" is for you 

Recommended by Alfred' M. Best, Co. Inc., New York 






Don Adkins 
Clemson, '63 


Bill Smith 
654-4726 
Auburn, '62 




Paul Oeland 
Clemson, '64 


Phone 654-4824 






Next to Dan's 




Drop in anyti 


me 






— The Harvard Lampoon 



CHRONICLE LISTINGS 



CONCERTS 

March 2 

American Ballet Theater 

March 11 

Houston Symphony Orchestra 

LECTURE 

April 6 

John Ciardi — Poetry Editor 

of the Saturday Review 

RUDOLPH LEE GALLERY 

January 8-February 3 
Student Exhibits 

February 7-27 

Contemporary Prints from Japan 

March 6-25 

Seventh Annual High School Art Show 

March 27 -April 17 
Architecture of Steel 

FOREIGN FILM SERIES 

January 8 

Summerskin (96 minutes — Spanish) 

Directed by Torre Nilsson 



V 



w 



Y. 



7 



\/ 





CLEMSON STUDENT UNION 



DESIGN: MICHAEL H. FINCH 

COPY: WILLIAM GRINDLEY 




The need is evident, the site is available; only the 

impetus is lacking, and that must be provided by 
the student body. In the master plan, a student center 
plays a vital and necessary role. It must dominate 
the space it sits in, yet complement the buildings 
around it. It must act as an entrance portal to the 
campus from the main artery of vehicular traffic 
through the town and peripheral to the main body 
of academic buildings and residence halls; and for 
the visitor it must provide a theme or mood for 
the entire campus. 

These requirements for the vistor or outsider are 
easily defined; but how does it function for the stu- 
dents who live around it, walk through it daily, meet 
in it, and accept it as part of their campus. 

How do the students use it? Where do you meet 
your weekend date? Where does your club, be it 
professional, social, or religious, hold its meetings? 
Where on the campus is a space suitable to hold 
small informal dances or concerts? Where can clubs 
show films outside the boundaries of their own 
meeting places? What space do the day students or 
coeds have to meet their friends? Where do you tell 
friends or parents to meet you when they come to 
visit you? Where does the campus begin and end 
and just where is the social center of the Clemson 
College campus? 

Today the need is not so evident, as the loggia 
with its cold forboding space provides some sort of 
space which everyone can call their own. But soon, 
as the internal organization of the campus ap- 
proaches that of an academic quadrangle of com- 
pletely pedestrian walks and streets, bringing with it 
new patterns of movement from residence to class, 
class to class, and residence / continued on page 30 




FRONT ELEVATION 




SECOND FLOOR PLAN 



viU 



FIRST FLOOR PLAN 




I 1 ■ I I 





'■^^fTTIn 









J^ J 


,^_^ 





A 




TIGER DEN PERSPECTIVE 



UPPER LOBBY PERSPECTIVE 




12 



¥HE IMPORTANCE OF 




N THESE DAYS of commercialism, we have dis- 
- covered a new aspect of the importance of sin 
in the community. The sins which the churches 
today recognize, murder, robbery and adultery, 
along with such minor things as lying, cheating and 
parking next to fire hydrants, are sins which all the 
righteous people of the world have been trying to 
eliminate for centuries. 

At the moment, there are hundreds of thousands 
of people whose jobs depend in one way or another 
on sin. First of all, there are the clergy, themselves. 
Then, there are the producers and promoters of reli- 
gious articles and pious charms. All this is not to 
mention the ecclesiastical architects, sculptors and 
painters, the musicians, the religious publishers, and 
so on ad nauseam. Also, there are the officials of 
the civil law: the police, the judges and the court and 
penal institution personnel. There are the attorneys 
and the private investigators, the marriage counse- 
lors and fortune-tellers, all of whom depend on sin, 
in one way or another, for their livelihood. 

Yj^ithout sin, all of them would be jobless; there 
would be a tremendous unemployment problem. 
Industry would be slowed by a sharp drop in con- 
sumer sales, since a most affluent segment of the 
public would have lost its buying power. The' slow- 
down would cause more unemployment which would 
cause a sharper decline. The cycle would continue 
until complete economic ruin had descended on the 
land. Civilized life as we know it would come 
to an end. 

So there is only one thing that you yourself can 
do to preserve Western Civilization. And you know 
what that is, don't you? 




A yuleti6e stRanqeR 




The big Greyhound bus slipped 
into its parking place, coming to a 
quick stop, and easing back slightly 
on its steel haunches. It was one of 
those tired, dirty looking, mechanical 
beasts whose many trips carrying 
crude and humble passengers had 
left in it a lingering odor of cigarette 
butts and cheap candy. 

A herd of out-of-towners clam- 
bered from the vehicle, eager to pay 
their tribute to the big city during 
the gay holiday season. As the 
stampede slowed, a man in a rather 
plain brown suit stepped from the 
bus. From his wearied appearance 
one would have guessed he had 
come a long way, but he picked up 
no luggage before walking past the 
four rest rooms and out into gaily 
decorated South Main. 

Today, Friday, was the last 
shopping day and from the size of 
the crowds pushing up and down 
the sidewalks, it seemed that every- 
one wished to get a few more of the 
many presents without which to- 
morrow would be meaningless. They 
surged in and out of stores, and 
braved the long gauntlet of chrome 
bumpers to reach a land of promise 
on the other side of the street. 

The stranger paused in the center 
of the sidewalk to adjust a cheap 
pair of cloth and leather gloves on 
his hands, and gazed heavenward 
at the city's red, green, gold, and 
silver decorations that brightened 
the winter sky. They swayed with 
every breeze that blew above the 
waves of humanity with a calm 
rhythm that quietly contrasted with 
the confused currents of holiday 
shoppers. 

The stranger's reverie and vantage 
point was soon challenged by a mob 
of people recently shepherded across 
the street by a tall policeman. 



By John mccARtep 

Caught up by the crowd, the 
stranger went toward Macy's where 
a battery of loudspeakers rang with 
the sound of "Jingle Bells." 

Inside the department store, he 
ventured down aisles of appealing 
products and once aroused the sus- 
picion of a floor walker for the 
peculiar way he examined a cheap 
chain and cross necklace. Then for a 
long while he watched little chil- 
dren standing in line to make their 
demands of a jovial gentleman in a 
red outfit and a big white beard. 

When he finally left Macy's, it 
was already night, but the many 
hues of holiday lights poured rain- 
bow colors down the street he took 
from the main business section of 
the metropolis. Coming to one of 
the more revered churches, the 
stranger gazed in a bewildered 
manner at the professionally de- 
signed manger scene whose glaring 
brightness prevented many of the 
incoming worshippers from seeing 
him standing there at the corner of 
the building. 

Going inside the auditorium and 
.taking a seat, he noted that most of 
the pews were empty for this special 
service. As he slipped off his gloves 
in an otherwise empty pew, he must 
have heard the scarcely guarded re- 
mark one elegant lady made to a 
friend about him, "This season of 
the year all varieties of riffraff 
wander into our church!" 

At the close of the performance, 
the stranger went outside and stood 
quietly on the steps of the church as 
the congregation hurried by him. If 
anyone had looked his way before 
he pulled on his gloves and started 
down the avenue, they might have 
noticed each of his palms was de- 
formed by a hideous scar. 



ILLUSTRATION BY ROB MAC 



14 




GENTLEMEN'S CHOICE 



PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOFFERY GROAT 



15 




I 



18 







^ 



BY L^RRY OOe PA.Vt4E. 



With Apologies to J. D. Salinger 



If you really want to hear about it, 
the first thing you will want to know 
is where I wos born and what my 
lousy childhood was like. Well, I 
don't feel like going into all that 
junk because it depresses the hell 
outta nne, so I ain't gonna tell you 
my whole goddamn biography. I'll 
just start by telling you my name 
and all this damn crazy stuff that 
happened to me last spring. They 
coll me Little Red Riding Hood. That's 
a damn silly name. I swear to God 
it is. I guess where I want to start 
telling you about is the day I left 
my house to go on a little journey 
through the woods to my Grand- 
mother's house. I had to take her a 
damn basket of goodies. You've 
probably seen these damn stupid 
pictures of little girls walking 
through the woods on their way to 
their Grandmother's. I mean those 
damn story books make it look like 
all us kids get a big kick outta going 
to our phony old Grandmother's. 
Hell, it's a damn long walk and you 
all the time gotta be on the lookout 
for these damn stupid wolves. I 
mean if you go to Grandmother's 
with some stupid goodies, and ain't 
scared of meeting some big bad 
wolf, then you're supposed to com- 
mit suicide or something. Big deal! 

Artyway, it was a spring day and 
my pa wanted me to take Granny 
some damn goodies 'cause she was 
in the bed sick. That always de- 
presses the hell outta me to have to 
go see some scrawny sick person. I 
forgot to tell you that my pa was too 



busy to go 'cause he was busy mak- 
ing up some booze. A lotto kids' old 
men make booze. They really do. I 
swear to God they do. 

Well, I started off through the 
woods and looked at all these stupid 
trees and that kind of nature junk. 
I got to Grandma's house and 
knocked on the door. Hell, that's a 
stupid thing to do. I mean here she 
is all sick and in bed and I know 
she can't get up and open the damn 
fool door. But you know how old 
sick people like for you to use your 
best goddamn manners. That's really 
a phony thing. It really is. 

Anway, she told me to come on in 
and of course I did. I don't know 
exactly what the hell was wrong 
with her, but I knowed she had 
changed since I last saw her. I mean 
she had these big ears, and a damn 
long nose and big eyes. If there'5. 
anything that depresses me, it is a 
grandma with a damn long snoozer. 
That can really moke you feel bad. 
It really can. I mean you don't know 
if they are going to bump into any- 
thing with it or not. 

Well, I didn't want to get too close 
to old granny's nose cause I didn't 
wont to catch whatever the hell she 
had. The thing was, i didn't want to 
have to store up the end of that 
damn long nose. I mean you take a 
thing like that, or big eyes, or just 
about any crop like that and it really 
looks nasty as hell. I swear to God 
it does. 

The thing was, 1 couldn't think of 
anything to soy. Well, old Granny 
looked at me and I had to say some- 
thing. I mean you just can't go to 



see your old sick grandma without 
even saying "Hi " or some damn 
phony thing like that. Well, I said, 
"My, Granny, what big ears you 
hove. " I mean that's a damn silly 
thing to soy once you think about it. 
That really interested her and she 
said, "Better to hear you with, my 
dear. Now I'm not kidding, but that 
old woman was sure smart as hell. I 
mean if you got big ears you con 
hear better. Well, I didn't know what 
to do or soy next, so I just looked at 
her big eyes and said, "My, what 
big eyes you hove. " Now like I said, 
that was a damn silly thing to soy 
but old granny was right ready with 
an answer. She said, "Better to see 
you with, my dear. " A person will 
say a lotto damn silly crap like thot 
when they ore around old people. 
I swear to God they will. I mean old 
people really give me a complex. 
I still couldn t keep myself from 
looking at old Granny's nasty look- 
ing nose. I mean you try to keep 
yourself from looking at something 
sometime and you will find your- 
self looking at it to see if you're ac- 
complishing what you were trying to 
do. Well, the damn big snoozer kept 
staring me in the face and I hod 
to say something. I mean if you ever 
look at a damn big nose like that 
at a level angle, it looks like two 
little beady eyes staring at you. It's 
really depressing as hell to know 
that you hove two little holes in a 
snoozer like Granny's staring at you. 
It really is. Well anyway, I said, "My 
what a big nose you hove." Old 
Granny grinned and said, "Better to 
smell you continued on page 28 



19 



The 
Last 
Day 

By William Jordan 



It was late afternoon of the day 
before he was to leave, and they 
were together. In the softness of the 
sun's diminishing rays he saw the 
fairness of her skin; saw flowing 
hair almost encircling her girlish 
smile; and he felt his love for her. 

They had been together most of 
the day, wanting to spend their last 
hours alone. What had happened to 
the day? It seemed to have passed 
impossibly fast. Soon they must 
leave this place, and each other. 

He had not known her for long, 
only these past weeks which were 
gone forever. They had been ac- 
quainted all their lives, but neither 
could truthfully say that they had 
known each other, save these past 
few days. This brief span seemed 
such a cheat to them compared to 
the years they had wasted. 

She had never looked so totally 
captivating as she did then, each 
second holding such a price. He had 
wondered what to do when their 
moment of parting came and was 
still wondering this while standing 
but a few feet from where she lay. 

He did not know if he had first 
been drawn to her in search of 
something to hold to in that time 
when nothing was sure except that 
he soon must leave. Neither did he 
care, for then affection had deep- 
ened far beyond. They had a ca- 
pacity for happiness in each other. 

He looked into her eyes and saw 
the same yearning he felt, the same 
questioning of what was to come, 
the same dread of separation. She 



was no longer smiling as she had 
been a few seconds earlier. All day 
she had made a vain attempt to 
keep from being sad by talking of 
their plans for the time when he 
would return, if he returned. She of 
course did not speak of this mor- 
bidly beckoning alternative. 

The look she gave him projected 
desire, pity, and despair, all com- 
bined. Neither spoke; then he 
kneeled and kissed her. It was a sur- 
prisingly soft kiss, their lips barely 
touching, but holding for a brief 
eternity. 

His mind was a cauldron of un- 
certainty, his thoughts strayed. He 
thought of the first time they had 
exchanged a long look; of the first 
kiss; of their future now darkened 
with doubt. Then he held her closer 
to him as his brain absorbed all the 
blood from his body and felt that 
there was but one spot on earth, 
the few square feet of ground which 
was theirs. There did not exist any 
part of the world except that spot; 
there did not exist a place thousands 
of miles away where men were 
killing and in turn being killed; there 
was no sun that would rise the next 
morning and see them part; there 
was no one except them. He could 
not believe these things when he 
held her, and felt her body close to 
his and knew that she was all that 
mattered. All of these things could 
not exist? 

The pressure of a world of late 
began to crowd in on his mind, driv- 
ing him farther from the uncertainty 



of truth, to the only thing he knew 
for sure, his love, the only thing 
existing. 

When they finally walked away 
all was dark except for the small 
light the moon afforded. The air was 
cooler and more sober. He looked 
up at the moon and thought of that 
same moon shining over a battle 
field where he would soon be. He 
thought of others saying their good- 
byes and felt strangely selfish for 
wanting to stay behind. He thought 
of the love countless others must 
share and he felt an uncomfortable 
twinge of insignificance. 

They stopped walking rather sud- 
denly and he looked at her. She 
looked at him, her hair rumpled with 
a brown twig in it, her bare feet and 
her shoes in her hand, her face 
stained with the smudges of dried 
tears. This was the first time he had 
seen her cry and it made him realize 
a fact that had heretofore eluded 
him. He had held her aloft, but now 
understood that she was only a 
woman; she was nothing more than 
the importance he attached to her. 
He knew then that he was only a 
man, with nothing more than other 
men possessed except when seen 
through her eyes. It almost sickened 
him to see their love not as some- 
thing exclusive to them, but as the 
common link that binds all people. 

He looked at her a long time, 
then without a word they turned 
and walked away as the night alone 
hailed their exit, the moon shining 
still. 



20 




LLUSTRATION BY ED SAMULSKI 



21 



Sink golden sun, 

lower, dimmer, gone, 

sleep warm keeper of my day, 

beyond, beyond, beyond, 

the blue ridge, which is as the edj 

of my total sky. 



The sun viewed in its full light, 

will blind the viewer of today, 

as it has blinded men of countless days away. 

The sea seen in all its vastness, 
will spark the imagination of the one, 
as it has fulfilled the dreams of the other, 
the father before the son. 



Search climber high, 
up, over, on, 

only to find another ridge, 
beyond, beyond, beyond. 



Stars still shine when man's life, 

long gone to its grave, is cold. 

they shine as they did before he was born, 

predestined to grow quickly old. 



There is a goal for climliers high, 
whose search ends not in the nearer sky, 
it is; 
Beyond, Beyond, Beyond. 



Thus, we find, nature stationary in Heaven's Run 
while minute man strives to sway his minute life, 
least the cosmic heavens, running with the sun 
free of his eternal strife. 



-Rob Mac 



-Rob Mac 




i 



22 



J 



DIE MEISTERSINGER 



All humanity is outraged at me, for 

I persist in believing the old lies of 

God, Truth, Goodness, Love 

and I am not daunted by a thousand flung 

unanswered questions in my face. 

Where is the old song of 
Surf-free, turf-free. 
Let us roam the earth-free? 

There is a new song. 

Now warmed by the fire. 
Now faint, now expire. 

I am afraid to walk in the city streets 
at night 

so I clutch my 

babydoU tight 

and the lions guard tlic library steps 

I go to the nuiseuni where my heart can sin« 
a little chanson. 

Who has smeared this disgrace across 
the face of mankind? 

gather the beautiful roses O 
gather the sweet roses 
kiss the transient roses 

Thou dravest love from thee who 

Thou dravest love 

dravest 

In the lonely, vaulted cathedral 
the monkey rattles his tin 
skull cup and the organ 
growls. 



-John Fowler 



CHAOS 



Sometimes I think he hates me; 
at others, loves me true. 

Sometimes he tries to change me; 
most times he lets me rule. 

Sometimes again I'm quite ignored; 
till once again I am the lord. 

Sometimes to overcome me with ideas; 
without success, my name is woman. 



— Thomas W. Salmons, III 



23 



The Other Side of YflTBOq 

Beginning with this issue we have nnanaged to break Dirty Dail Dixon's monopoly on nonsensical trash. New nonsensical "trash poets" appear 
in this page for the first time since the abortion produced "The Other Side of Poetry." Anybody who thinks he has nothing worth printing is 
welcome to try his stuff oa this page. Meanwhile, to get the serious OS poetry reader oriented as to the exact location of the other side of 
poetry, Harry Suber, after thirty days of slaving over o hot computer, come up with an explanation of how the whole thing came about. If you 
are brave enough and have a taste for trash, FORWARD, Descend into the world of no wherel 



The crayfish is an animal 
that travels in reverse. 
He doesn't knov^ his destination 
because he's been there first 

t.d.r 

Roses ore red 
Violets are blue 
sugar is sweet 
and so to bed 



p. j. davenport 



ha 

ha ha 

ha ha ha 
ha ha ha ha 
ha ha ha ha ha 
A in anything 
ha 



d.d.d. 



I love you in blue 
I love you in red 
and best of all 
I love you in blue 

the highv^aymen 

I think that I shall never see 
a girl refuse a meal that's free, 
A girl with hungry eyes not fixed 
upon the drink that's being mixed, 
A girl who doesn't like to wear 
a lot of stuff to match her hair; 
But girls are loved by fools like me 
'cause I don't like to kiss a tree. 

munoz 




The Chronicle has received inquiries asking 
how and where D. D. Dixon found The Other 

Side of The following is a brief account 

of the events leading up and including this 
brilliant breakthrough in poetry. 

In the beginning all the known poetry was a 
collection of ordered triplets (x,y,x) contained 
within a unit sphere in time independent 
Euclidean three space. This set of proper poetry, 
as it is called, lacked a transfinite number of 
points, namely, its own origin at (0,0,0) and its 
boundry (all points (x2 -j- y2 -(- z2 = 1). This 
obviously left a great deal to be desired. 

It was T. S. Eliot who first discovered that any 
point inside the sphere could be reflected across 
the boundary by taking its reciprocal. Now each 
point of the set of proper poetry possessed a 
corresponding point outside the sphere. This 
"pseudo-universal" set greatly enlarged the field 
of poetry and was a stepping stone to subse- 
quent discoveries. It was left to E. E. Cummings 
to discover that points very near the origin (i. e. 
of small absolute value) could be reflected far 
out into the pseudo-universal. It is of interest to 
note that E. E. found several unique four-letter 
sets quite near the origin whose reflections are 
really way out. 

At this point the reader is encouraged to 
master the above concepts before proceding. This 
brief background, if mastered, should enable 
the reader to understand how Dixon found the 
other side of poetry. As previously noted, the 
proper set of poetry lacked the point (0,0,0), or 
in other words, nothing. 

We have also seen that Cummings came very 
near this point. It was, however, Dixon who 
finally found this point. It happened that our 
protege in a most unorthodox fashion (method 
beyond the scope of the thesis) stumbled upon a 
heretofore unknown subset of the pseudo- 
universal far away and beyond anything ever 
dreamed of — even by E. E. Upon performing the 
reverse of the operation discovered by Elliot 
(highly unorthodox!) This subset reflected 
nothing, rather the point (0,0,0). This was a truly 
thrilling experience: for not only had he dis- 
covered the much sought-for point at zero, but 
also since the reciprocal of zero is infinity he had 
reached the outermost point of all poetry — truly 
beyond and on the other side of poetry. (The 
proof is left as an exercise to the reader.) — h.h.s 



24 



AND THEN 
THERE WAS LOVE 



By Bill Meggs 




"Love and life clashed on the hattlefield of play that day 



If to be means being 
What means seeing? 

These words were scratched on the 
window sill in seemingly childish 
pencil scratch, and his eyes moved 
from them up and out of the 
fifteenth floor window. Slowly his 
gaze moved from the apartment 
building across the way and down 
the corridor of Amsterdam Avenue. 
He saw the hole in which Central 
Park lay and the spire of the Empire 
State Building rising beyond. When 
it was hot, a mist hung over the city, 
and the tdll symbol of mans up- 
ward push was obscured by the tiny 
droplets which hung between, but 
now the air was clearing, and he 
could focus on the building sixty 
blocks away. 

He waited, it seemed that he had 



been waiting for a long time, but the 
time was just approaching. Maybe 
for days he had been waiting, may- 
be for years, but he was just learn- 
ing of the wait. It was a knowing 
wait, now, and for the first time a 
lonely wait. 

His mind raced backwards in time, 
skipping over carefree days, ig- 
noring happy days, and always 
landing on that two weeks prior 
when, for the first time since they 
had met, they hod parted. And so 
he waited, knowing not what to 
expect, expecting not to care, but 
always knowing that he cared. 

The ringing phone shattered his 
thoughts, and he rushed for it, falling 
over chairs, beds, people and any- 
thing else that obstructed his way. 

"Hi," she said, "I'm here." 



"Fine," he answered and his voice 
quit. For a moment neither spoke, 
"ill meet you as soon as I can get 
there." 

"How long will it take?" she 
asked. 

"It's according to the subways," 
he answered. 

Soon he was waiting on a hot 
platform beneath the streets of 
Broadway. Time after time he would 
hang his head over the track recess 
and peer into the dark tube, wait- 
ing for a train, hoping for a train, 
praying for a train. And then there 
was a train to hurl him down the 
screaming darkness to the Port 
Authority Bus Terminal seventy 
blocks away. 

He raced into the crowds of the 
world's largest / cont. on page 32 



25 






26 



The American Federation of Arts has 
assembled the works of many of 
America's young artists in an exhibit 
which is currently traveling around 
the country. These works are, most 
certainly, a good indication that 
American culture is not on the 
decline. 

PHOTOS BY GEOfF GROAT 






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HOLD HIGH THE BASKET RED 

continued from page 19 

with, my dear." Now if that ain't 
a damn corny thing to say to 
a person. I mean who the hell 
wants to go around smelling other 
people, it's really disgusting when 
you think about it. It really is. 
Especially if they ain't had a bath in 
about a week. Well, I got to thinking 
how damn silly I was sounding and 
rude, too. I mean you just don't go 
around telling your Grandma what 
big ears and nose she has. Especially 
old people like that. I mean they are 
just too damn sensitive about having 
big ears and a big nose. They really 
are. Well, anyway, I kept looking at 
old granny lying there in the bed 
and I noticed that she had some 
damn big teeth. I mean most gran- 
nies don't even have any teeth at all. 
Maybe I shouldn't have said it be- 
cause I have said almost the damn 
same silly thing about a million 
times, but anyhow I said, "My, what 
big teeth you have." Well, she 
jumped outta bed and said, "Better 
to eat you with, my dear." I mean 
that's really a damn crazy thing for 
your own grandma to say, so I 
figured she must be o damn crazy 
nut or something like that. But then I 
saw that it wasn't my granny after 
all. It was just some damn crummy 
wolf that was posing as my old 
Grandma. I mean I damn near got 
ate up by the silly bastard. I got ex- 
cited as hell about it, I really did. I 
mean I ain't no damn hero or none 
of that phony stuff, but I had seen 
all these damn silly movies and other 
crap, so I just knocked the hell outta 
the damn silly wolf with the basket 
that I was still holding. I mean some 
of these damn phony characters you 
run up against are real phony 
phonies. I swear to God they are. I 
always get depressed as hell when I 
meet a damn phony. I really do. 

Well, anyway, this sonuvabitch of 
a phony fell over and lay on the floor 
after I belted him with my basket 
of goodies. I swear to God he did. 
I got excited as hell just thinking 
about it. But what I really done then 
was to sit down on Granny's old 
stupid bed and eat all the goodies 
I had brought from home for her. I 
mean I damn near got killed on ac- 
count of them sonuvabitching 
goodies and I sure as hell wasn't 
going to let them go to pot for 
nothing, if you want to know the 
truth. 



28 



CLEMSON STUDENT UNION 

continued from page 10 

to residence, where will the central 
focus be? How will the scattered and 
sundry activities have any relation to 
the new patterns of campus life? One 
answer is to coordinate these activities 
into- a single concentrated area freely 
serving all students and functions. 

With the combined facilities of audi- 
toria, lounges, general meeting rooms 
and a snack bar all integrated into a 
single structure, the student center goes 
far beyond what the present separate 
facilities can provide. It gives a focus 
and congregational space both indoors 
and out and by virtue of its function 
and architectural form adds atmos- 
phere and unity to the campus. 



The designer's choice of site evolved 
from availability and the need for the 
building to become an entrance or 
gateway. With one arm extending to 
cover the sidewalk the pedestrian 
passes through the building and into or 
out of the campus. The large curve- 
linear forms advancing and receding, 
provide a suitable contrast to the harsh 
angularity of Tillman Hall and the 
dormitories. The construction ma- 
terials, brick and concrete complement 
the established vernacular of the cam- 
pus and make suggestion to greater 
possibilities of use of the materials. 
Conforming to and complementing the 
sloping site the designer has sensitively 
recognized the existing terrain. The 
curved walls make recessions for out- 



door spaces, which become communal 
areas, areas of exchange and meeting, 
areas for the interaction of people and 
ideas. This highly sculptural approach, 
complimenting the constant motion 
through and around it, by the use of 
bold sweeping planes, seems fitting to 
set the mood for college activity. The 
interior, as the exterior, seems to offer 
a rich and varied spatial change, re- 
flecting the activity within. 

The excitement of this building, the 
sophistication of the space around it 
offers one possibility to the solution of 
student communal needs. There are 
other solutions perhaps as valid, but 
time has come for action in this 
direction. 




CLEMSON 



now 
Pepsi 

for those who 

think you fig 




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Terry 



BoHling Co, 

ANDERSON, S. C. 



under appointment of Pepsi Cola Co.' 
New York 



MARTIN'S 
DRUG'S 



30 




53 Things To 

Do Between Classes 

Edited by Lydia Threatt 

1. Send the Bursar a bill. 

2. Hold your breath until it hurts. 

3. Singe off your eyebrows. 

4. Go to Dr. Hardy and look in- 
secure. 

5. Go to the library and ask the li- 
brarian for a current best-seller. 

6. Wear a muumuu to class. 

7. Put a lock on the OTHER wheel 
of sonneone's bicycle. 

8. Call up your boy friend and tell 
him that you REALLY have to 
talk to him. 

9. Think of funny things to yell in 
the flicks. 

10. Throw your weight around. 

1 1 . Scratch where it itches. 

12. Pitch pennies against Tillman 
Hall. 

13. Tell your roommate that he 
really should do something 
about his bad breath. 

14. Sign your roommate up for the 
"Impeach Earl Warren" Society. 

15. Lurk outside the women's dorm. 

16. Eat one peanut. 

17. Ask a girl why she's wearing a 
shift. 

18. Pick your nose. 

19. Kick yourself for being in the 
reserves. 

20. Put your hand on Mrs. Albert's 
wall. 

21. Tell your grandmother to read 
Fanny Hill. 

22. Shave just one leg. 

23. Pitch a nickel against Tillman 
Hall. 

24. Take a lover. 

25. Graduate. 

26. Have a beer. 

27. Blot, don't rub. 

28. Devise a scheme to help the 
coyote catch the roadrunner. 

CHRONICLE 



29. Memorize the 101 words on a 
Bud label. 

30. Search for a soulmate. 

31. Become an unwitting pawn in 
the hands of someone. 

32. Kiss a passer-by. 

33. Cut a notch in your virgin pin. 

34. Have another beer. 

35. Learn why Lucky Strike green 
never come back from the war. 



36. Kick yourself for not being in the 
Reserves. 

37. Ask for on English 101 book in 
the bookstore. 

38. Send for a Red Bethea button. 

39. Catch a faculty member at a red 
dot store. 

40. Figure out why we didn't hove 
thirteen more things on this 
list. 



STEREO 



^CD^< 



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BY GENERAL ELECTRIC 



AT 



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HOME & AUTO, INC. 



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31 



Get 

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CLEMSON 
BARBER SHOP 



front of Dan's 



ADVERTISER'S 



INDEX 



American Ins. Co. 


7 


Bass Weejuns 


6 


Clemson Barber Shop 


32 


Dan's 


1 


Harper's 


28 


Judge Keller 


30 


Martins 5 & 10 


30 


Medico Pipes 


28 


Skelton's 


31 


Taps 


29 


Terry Bottling Co. 


30 


Vulcan Ins. Co. 


8 


Walters and Hillman 


5 


Wyatt Sutherland 


2 



AND THEN 

continued from page 25 

bus ternninal and sought the desig- 
nated meeting place. She wasn't 
there. Panic came over him, he raced 
about hunting, seeking, scrutiniz- 
ing each of the mob which swarmed 
on all sides. 

A gentle tap on the shoulder 
halted the wild and maddening 
quest, and slowly he turned to face 
her. It was her, the same her, 
wonderful her. Love and life clashed 
on the battlefield of play that day, 
and the next, and the next. For one 
week-end together they assimilated 
the sounds and smells, the loves and 
hates of the city. They became inter- 
mingled in each other, loving, know- 
ing, feeling. From a stroll along the 
Hudson to the picnic in Central Park, 
from the lights and drama of Broad- 
way to the screaming jazz down in 
the village, together they saw and 
felt. 

Even the long and hot subway 
rides were part of it. All around 
them people sat, their faces showing 
great apathy, lack of desire for life, 
but they, in total contrast, were alive, 
living, loving. From a crowd on the 
train a boy from Harlem stepped 
forward and began to sing a love 
ballad with arm-waving and spin- 
ning. No one looked, no one saw. 
When he finished, he fell to his 
knees in a great bow of courtesy to 
the deaf and dumb audience. Rising, 
he pulled a sign from his coat which 
read: 

My mother has cancer 
I'm blind in one eye 
Please help 
The boy went from person to person 
with a small plastic cup, but the 
people were dead. No one even 
dared to look at him. 

Only he and she could know, 
could appreciate, could feel any pity, 
or want to help. Only they dared 
look at him or give him a few coins. 

As a time of parting once more 
drew near desperation developed 
between them. Could these few days 
not go on forever? Why, why did it 
have to end? The spell, the wonder- 
ful spell, why did it have to end? 

Together they rode the subway 
downtown to the bus terminal. On 
this last day it had started raining. 
Together they entered the terminal, 
together they went up to the ticket 
area and checked the schedule, to- 
gether they walked downstairs to 
the loading ramp, together they held 
hands and quickly kissed goodbye, 
and alone she rode away. 

Alone he walked slowly, ever so 
slowly, onto the wet street. He 
walked among hundreds, among 



millions of people. But he walked 
alone. 

The rain made its way down his 
neck and drained onto his back. He 
thought he was crying, but he was 
not sure. He could only think of her, 
of loving her, of his fear of losing 
her. 

As he walked, there was a great 
emptiness, a great hole within him. 
He knew not why, but he knew that 
only she could fill it, and no matter 
how colorful those surrounding him 
might be, no matter what he might 
do, he would only exist in loneli- 
ness when she was not there. 



We 

Defy 

You 

To 

Write 

Something 

Creative! 



32 




ME 



PUBLISHING COMPANY 

San Angelo, Texas 




Vlf inner off 10 difffferent national yearbook awardi 



II 



yJt^ "^ CLEMSON ^ ^ 

Cfjrtnicle 



LLllSON COlUGE LIWAR1 
,iUTIi CAHiLIIA CtUtCTIO^ 




MAY 1964 




Old CHRONICLES make good paper dolls. A 
subscription entitles you to 4 old CHRONICLES. 
You can make slightly less than umpteen 
million paper dolls with 4 old CHRONICLES 



GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FORM 



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1 year only 2 dollars or equivalent at current rate of exchange 
CHRONICLE/BOX 2186/CLEMSON UNIVERSITY/CLEMSON, S.C. 



Editor's Notes 



Xhis is the year of the big change. Clemson College 
will soon be fading into the glorious past, and Clem- 
son University emerging. With the new name, greater 
status will come to Clemson as an institution of higher 
learning. Clemson will then no longer be known as a 
"cow college". In keeping with the increase in status, 
the elevation of the nickname to "bovine university" 
might be more fitting. 

In our way of celebrating the name change, we 
present this big two-in-one issue which could be called 
the "Let's get the hell out and go home" issue. If you 
can think of something more to your liking, you are 
welcome to call it what you wish. In this issue there 
are a lot of pictures to look at, a lot of stories and 
articles to read, a few things to laugh about, and 
perhaps something to wonder about. 

The scenes from Shakespeare's The Tamiiiii of the 
Shrew and this issue's GC are well worth looking at. 
There are stories and articles to read by Jimmy 
Lyons, Tom Salmons, Dave Henry and Jim Barnes. 
These stories are among the best ever to be seen in 
these pages. Also in this issue is a Chronicle first, 
three plays in the Trilogy of the Idle God by W. E. 
Rowley Then depending on your point of view, you 
may laugh with the Lord of the Phis and also with 
Dave Henry as he ex[)lores some of the bureaucratic 
and political jargon of the day. You just might won- 
der when you get through reading this issue! 

This is my last issue, and 1 should like to express 
my thanks to the staff and also to Doctors Steadman, 
Cox and Calhoun for their help this year. I think 
that we have produced a magazine that Clemson stu- 
dents can be proud to call their own. And I think I 
speak for the entire staff when 1 say that working 
on the Chronicle has been an enjoyable and rewarding 
experience. 

Have a good summer. 



Editor 




CLEMSON 



CHRONICLE 



LiTTros 




Dear Sir: 

I read with interest the editorial in 
the December issue of "The Chronicle." 

In September 1962 Columbia College 
inaugurated the trimester calendar. 
Now in the second year of operation, it 
is encouraging to note interest in the 
system at other institutions in our na- 
tive South Carolina. 

Your magazine is an excellent one 
and I commend you on your efforts. 
Thomas G. Shuler 
Dean 
Columbia College 




SYMBOL OF STRENGTH 



Graduating Seniors 
THE "COLLEGE GRAD PLAN" IS FOR YOU 

Recommended by Alfred M. Best, Co., Inc., New York. 





Insurance designed especially for the 
college graduate/ Plans tailored to fit 
the needs, both present and future, of 
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DROP IN ANYTIME! 



Dear Sir: 

We 

Defy 

You 

To i 

Write 

Something 

Creative! 

"Let he who has not sinned cast 
the first stone." 

Bob Deans 
Clemson 



Dear Sir: 

You asked for comments concerning 
the magazine, and here are mine: 
Bravo, well done, and thanks. Bravo 
for your definite, enlightened opinions 
on worthwhile subjects. The whole 
magazine is well done, and especially 
do I admire the general format. Finally, 
thanks for getting this December issue 
out before everyone went home. I look 
forward to carrying my Chronicle 
home for my friends to read, and I 
am sure most Clemson men and women 
are as proud of the magazine as I am. 

Thank you again for the fine maga- 
zine. 

John Michael Pushkar 
Clemson 

P.S. — Hope to see more of Will Jor- 
dan's work soon. That kid has got some 
real ability. 



Dear Sir: 

A copy of your December issue re- 
cently reached my desk, and this was 
the first time I had had an oppor- 
tunity to review your publication. I 
would like to commend you and the 
members of your staff for an unusual 
college literary magazine. 

Gerald G. Hawkins 
Assistant Director 
Student Activities 
North Carolina State 



MIKE MEDLOCK 

Editor 

GEOFF GROAT 

Managing Editor 

BOBBY WILEY 

Business Manager 
DAIL DIXON 

Art Director 

CHARLES BRYAN 

Copy Editor 

DAVE HENRY 

Friiliirv Editor 

LARRY PAYNE 

Humor Editor 

HARRY SUBER 

Circulation Manager 

RAY AYRES 

. idi ertising Manager 

JIM MCCONNELL 

Promotions 

BOARD OF CRITICS 

John McCarlcr^ 

Dendy Sloan 

Jim McC.onncll 

Tom Young 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Mark Millhoum 

Ashley Paulk 

Lvdia Threatt 

Roh Bryan 

Bruce Geihlc 

Rhett Rotcley 

Will Jordan 

Harry Toivnsend 

Ted King 

Donny Golighth 

,<:. Floyd 111 

Stan W oodward 

Fred Busch 

DR. MARK STEADMAN 

Faculty tdrisnr 

CHRONICLE 



Chronicle 



MAY 1964 



J OL. n . \0. 3 



CONTENTS FOR 


CLEMSON'S VARIETY MAGAZINE 




4 


Editorial 




6 


Patter 


John McCarlcr 


7 


Fred Wolfe 


Jimmy l.yotis 


8 


Mansions in the Sky 




11 


Taming of the Shrew 


John Fotdrr 


16 


Three Exercises 


Jim Harnt's 


17 


Tomorrow is Another Day 




19 


Gentlemen's Choice 




24 


Other Side of Poetry 


Tom Salmons 


25 


Incident 


If . K. Kottlry 


26 


Trilogy of the Idle God 


Dair 1/,-nry 


34 


Liberal Semantics 


Duniard Stinson 


35 


Lord of the Phis 



Chronirlr 



OUR COVER: The Clironidf s mad (arloonist Durwood 
Stinson has captiirt-d the spirit of the season with his 
•roing home, goins; away, or just going cover. See you 

iie\t vcar. 



The Chronicle is an officio! publication of Clemson University published usually quarterly in September, 
December, March ond May by the Calhoun literary Society. Copyright 1964 by the Calhoun Literary 
Society. Address all correspondence to the Chronicle, Box 2186, College Stotion, Clemson, South 
Carolina, 29631. Student subscriptions are paid for through the student activities fees Other subscrip- 
tion rotes: U.S. and possessions; one year $2.00, Canada and Pan Amcricon Union Countries; S2.50; 
oil other foreign countries including Mississippi and Alabama; $3.00. Entered as regular mail at 
Clemson, South Corolino Ipermit no longer pending, thanks to Clin D. . The editors ossume no 
responsiijility for the return of any contributions You hove to come get the-n The editors reserve 
the right to moke any chonges or corrections in editorial contributions. The opinions or ideas expressed 
herein do no necessorily express the views of the entire student body, or the foculty or administra- 
tion Notional Advertising Reprcseniotive: College Magazines, Incorporated, II West 42nd Street, 
New York 36, New York. Member: Associated Collegiote Press. Printed by offset in the good old 
US. of A. 



Editorial 

Conversation with a Busch 



I 



was sitting at the typewriter the 
other day gazing vacantly out the win- 
dow trying to write something for this 
issue. Several ideas came to mind, but 
all were discarded. Upon the discard of 
the last one. our old friend Busch came 
through the door carrying what ap- 
peared to he a case of something with 
his name on it. 

"Greetings. Busch," said I. 

"Hi", said Busch, setting down the 
case gently. (I thought I heard metal 
strike metal at that time.) He plopped 
himself down on the case as hest he 
could. Busch seemed to he having some 
trouble with his seeing; only one of 
his ill-coordinated eyeballs could reg- 
ister on me at one time. The left eye- 
ball seemed to have a gleam in it. .so 
I said, "You been up to something 
Busch?" 



"Yes" was all he said. 

"Tell me about it. I won't repeat a 
word." I had to say that becau.se Busch 
often tells some kind of incriminating 
tales. He looked at me with his other 
eye. which held a certain boldness. 

"Come now. Busch, out with it." 

"Well. etc. I have been doing some 
thinking (sic) and research (sic) and 
found an amazing thing. I think (sic) 
it is a terrible thing when the pure, 
clean minds of the innocent girls on 
this campus can become dirtied and 
corrupted by some of the magazines 
sold right downtown. You know thai 
magazines like Playboy, Cavalier and 
so on can utterly destroy the minds of 
any college kid that reads them. So 
now that the minds of the males are 
free for only pure thoughts. I got to 
wonderinii about the female minds. 




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6 days a week from 8 AM to 10 PM 

and confidentially, we give 

the best haircuts in town 



These magazines are sold right down- 
town even. They are part of the Com- 
munist plot to overthrow this country 
by destroying minds." 

"What magazines are you talking 
about, Busch?" I asked patiently. 
Busch now was standing on his case, 
swaying slightly to keep his balance. 
His left eye stared at me. 

"It's those magazines that always 
talk about the gloriously happy and 
.';ad lives of the bunch of people that 
make movies." 

"Horrors no". I said, realizing that 
I must know someone whose mind has 
been taken by such stuff. Busch ran 
on. 

"I went down and counted fifty dif- 
ferent titles of this type magazine. 
Every one is for the same thing. They 
all condone adultery — look at Burton 
and Elizabeth .... oh, what's her 
name? Anyway they arouse unfemale 
emotions. They have sexy pictures of 
Rock Hudson, Dr. Casey, and Huckle- 
berry Hound. They cause girls to be 
nosy, always prying into other people's 
business. The girls can take lessons 
from Heddie Hooper. Walter Winchell. 
Dear Abby . . ." 

"Bu.sch, you are all mixed up. Let 
me straighten you out. Rock Hudson is 
not sexy and Walter Winchell is a 
radioman for the Queen Elizabeth." 
Busch swayed a little more. 

"Uh. friends. Romans, count . . ." 

Here the conversation ended, for 
Busch had fallen from his case and 
struck his empty head on the hard 
concrete floor. After the men in the 
white Plymouth had come to take him 
away, I nimbly stepped over to the case 
Busch had brought in. Nothing but 
empty Busch cans. Poor old Busch. 
Sometimes I wonder about him. 



DIRTY JOKES 

\\ liat has two lireasts. 11 legs, and 

whistles as it runs through the forest? 

Snow White and the seven dwarfs. 

• 
Overheard on a shortwave radio set 
"This is Radio Palestine 1550 on vour 
radio dial. Rut for you — 1195. 
• 
.Some pumpkins are green. 1 am 
green. Therefore I am some pumpkin. 
• 

Moe: How was your dale last night? 

Joe: No good. She was a stuffed 
shirt. 

• 

A lanky cowhoy strode into a fifth 
avenue ladies shop, approached a sales 
lady and said. "\\\ like to Iiuy a girdle 
ma'am.'" 

••Playtex?" she suggeste.l. 

"That's mighty kind of you maam." 
the eowliov answered, "hut right now 
I'm douMe narked." 
• 

She: Why did you lake up the 
piano? 

He: My l.,-.-r kept sliding „ff ihr 
violin. 

• 

Fashion note: They're wearing the 
.same thing in hras this year. 
• 

"Maw it sure is had two of our 
daughters are a layin' up in that there 
cemetery." 

"^ eah. J'aw. sometimes I wish they 
were dead." 



Hear ahout the illegitimate rice 
crispy who had snap, crackle- l.ut no 
pop? 

• 

Henry was helping his son fly a kite 
in the backyard, hut was having 
trouble getting it to stay up. His wife 
stood watching them from the porch. 
Henry had just run the entire length 
of the yard, trying to pull the kite 
into the air, only to have it thrash 
ahout uncertainly, and plummet to the 
ground. 

"Henry." said the wife, "you need 
more tail." 

"I wish you would make up your 
mind," .said Henry panting heavily. 
"Last night you told me to go fly a kite. 
• 

"Gosh, pardon me for slapping your 
face, F thougl^t you were trying to steal 
my sorority pin." 

• 

Papa Bear: "Who's been drinking 
my beer?" 

Mama Bear: "Who's been drinking 
my beer?" 

Baby Bear: "BARF." 

CHRONICLE 




LORD OF THE FLIES; 
A RE-APPRAISAL 

The readiness with whicli literary 
critics accept clever re-working for 
original creation is. [ feel, one of the 
many indications of the bankruptcy of 
contemporary criticism. A period which 
has acclaimed, sometimes with inter- 
national honors, the rehash of almost 
the entire corpus of Classical literature 
seems almost to glory in critical de- 
linquency. We have heen re-served-up 
Aeschylus and Euripides under the by- 
lines of Capote. William.s. Miller and 
Faulkner, and have explained away the 
rape of Aristophanes and Terence as 
"existential inter|)retation". It is not 
surprising, therefore, to find in one of 
the most recent "crital best-sellers" — 
The Lord oj the Flies, by William 
Golding — a flagrant and uiibliishing ex- 
ample of the same process. 

I am not normally upset by this 
sort of thing, so common has it be- 
come, but by chance, the two sources 
which the author of The Lord of the 
Flies chose to amalgamate and adapt 
are among my favorite works of litera- 
ture. Moreover, the authors of the origi- 
nals have, in my opinion, been .shame- 
fully passed over and neglected in the 
presentations of English Literature to 
college students. They are H. H. Munro 
(Saki) and Richard Hughes. 

Munro's short stories dealing with 
the basic inhumanity and amorality of 
children are among the most frighten- 
ing in the language. Particularly chill- 
ing are those which show the momen- 
tary — or sometimes permanent — revers- 
ion of children to states of primitive 
barbarism or outright animalism. Oc- 
casionally — but only very occasionally, 
for they are strong meat — one or two 
of these appear in collections of short 
stories, and some of the titles, there- 
fore, may be familiar to you: "The 
Open Window", "Sredni Vashtar", 
"Seton's Aunt", or "Eseme". Of imme- 
diate interest to us is "The Idol of the 
Flies", the original publication date of 
which I cannot discover, but which 
I first read in a collection of Munro's 
work published in 1936. 

The title derives from the etymology 
of Beelzebub; Beel (or Baal) meaning 
"God" or "Lord", and z'bub (or Ze- 
bub) meaning (of the) "flies". Thus 
Beelzebub translates as "The Lord of 
the Flies". Munro's story deals with 



an image of this manifestation of the 
Devil, and he therefore substitutes 
"Idol" for "Lord". In "The Idol of the 
Flies" a small boy contrives the mur- 
der of his parents, exonerating him- 
self from any feelings of guilt by be- 
lieving that he has made himself and 
which he worships. In essence this is a 
study of primitive rationalization; "I 
wish to kill", "My society punishes 
such an act", "If I kill at the direction 
of a God, then I escape all public and 
private consequences". The literature of 
the Greeks and the Hebrews is full of 
such stories. In the Old Testament the 
story is usually given an 0. Henry twist 
so that a moralistic ending will prove 
the unavoidable justice of Jaweh. 

Munro. however, makes no such 
twist; his little monster gets away with 
it. and does .so without the faintest 
twinge of conscience, maintaining all 
the while the facade of a well-brought- 
up English child of the upper- 
middle class. Here is where the 
horror of the story lies; the suggestion 
that given a provocative set of circum- 
stances, any well-brought-up child 
might react in the same way. Munro 
uses the theme of cult creation and the 
deification of some personal pose.ssion 
(or pet) in several stories of children. 
In "Sredni Vashtar" a child elevates a 
pet polecat to the Godhead, and tricks 
his hated Aunt to her death in its cage. 
In "Laughter on the Hill" a group of 
children deliberately sacrifice the least 
liked of their number to a pet hyena 
which has escaped from a neighboring 
park. 

The theme of these and other of 
Munro's stories is that civilizations is a 
learned set of behavioral patterns which 
in the young child are only beginning 
to be appreciated, and which are fun- 
damentally opposite to the basic nature 
of man. Thus under conditions of 
.strong emotion or stress, the child 
sluffs off these patterns more easily 
and completely than the adult, who 
continues to be irritated by their re- 
straint, but who conceals or rational- 
izes his lapses into barbari.sm. 



termath of a tropical storm; however, 
Hughes' children are rescued — or kid- 
napped, the point of view is left de- 
liberately ambivalent — by a band of 
pirates. From this point the story is one 
of the moral decay of .supposedly "bad" 
men under the influence of the totally 
amoral children. Murder, seduction, 
e\en cannil)alism originate not with the 
pirates, but with the children. In the 
end, the men are destroyed, both phy- 
sically and spiritually, by their associa- 
tion with anti-civilizing patterns of raw 
cliildhood. The children, on the other 
hand, easily revert to their original 
roles as products of the English upper- 
middle class with no stain or strain on 
their personalities, and a convenient 
blank in their memories. 

To return, then, to The Lord of 
the Flies; its basic plot — the cast-away 
children, their sluffing off of civiliza- 
tion and reversion to barbarism — is, in 
my opinion, extraordinarily close to 
that of A lli^h Wind In Jamaica. Simi- 
larly, the guilt shifting and cult crea- 
tion of children so frighteningly and 
succinctly dealt with by Munro in "The 
Idol of the Flies" is strongly reflected 
in The Lord of the Flies (leaving aside, 
as trivial, the almost identical titles). 
It is entirely possible that the author 
of The Lord of the Flies was inspired 
by sub-conscious memories of these two 
stories; however, as I am an enthusiast 
of both Munro and Hughes, I could not 
but wish that he had made some slight 
bow of appreciation in their direction. 
—DR. HAROLD COOLEDGE 

■''No part of this review may be re- 
printed without the written permis- 
sion of the author. 



A novel-length exposition of the same 
theme is Richard Hughes' A High 
Wind in Jamaica, which I believe to 
be the other parent of The Lord of The 
Flies. Hughes' novel, published in 
1928, likewise concerns itself with a 
group of children cast-away by the af- 



LETTERS FROM THE EARTH 

When Ambrose Bierce disappeared 
into the Mexican wilderness in 1913, 
he could have assumed with much con- 
fidence that his well earned nickname. 
Bitter, meant Most Bitter, for he was 
at that time unparalleled with regards 
to .sheer bitterness. Mark Twain had 
been dead for three years, and even 
though he had a flurry of extreme pes- 
simism in later years, producing such 
works as "The Man that Corrupted 
Hadleyburg", no one gave him a 
chance against Bitter Bierce. 

The ultra-extreme depth of Twain's 

cynicism and hatred of the human race 

/continued on page 18 



Cfjfinide 



FRED 
WOLFE 



Inter 



l»y John McCarter 



■ Fred Wolfe, brother of Thomas 
Wolfe, is quite obviously a talkative 
version of the famous author of Look 
Homeuard An^el. In talking to Chron- 
icle interviewers he showed much of 
the love of life and warmth that char- 
acterized Thomas Wolfe. 

CHHOMCLE: At what age do you 
actually think that your brother started 
being interested in writing? 

WOLFE: I think he showed that in- 
terest from the time he was ten or 
twelve years old. When he was at the 
North State Fitting School, in Ashevill.-. 
And then, on into North Carolina 
where he found himself, certainly after 
the first year. I think that during the 
first year that Tom was trying to get 
himself settled down. But he was jms- 
sibly torn between doubt and uncer- 
tainty. Not despair, of course, then. No 
young man will be despairing at the 
age of 16 or 17. That's what Tom 
was. When he found himself, and he 
went back in his sophomore year, he 



was into everything that concerned 
writing. And then, of course, Tom be- 
came highly interested in drama. Whe- 
ther he thought he could become an- 
other Eugene O'Neill, or not. I don't 
know, but he had his aspirations. 

CHRONICLE: What makes a writer 
become a writer? Can you tell us what 
made Tom become a writer? 

WOLFE: 1 can and I can't. When I 
explain it. I will not explain it. Tom 
was simply impelled with a spark of 
genius, that is the compulsion, that is 
the urge . . . I've got to write it . . . 
its got to come out. I think that gen- 
ius is compulsion, and compulsion is 
work. Tom had that spark of genius 
backed with the compulsion of work. 
I think he did what he had to do. I 
don't think anything short of death 
(ould have st()j)pe(l him. I think that 
writing for Tom was a matter, we've 
heard the expression of "Sweat, tears, 
toil and blood." I think that would 
sum up what it amounted to him in all 
of his writings. 1 think he had to go 
through the whole thing. Compulsion, 
the urge, it's got to be done; "Oh. Lord. 
give me time to do it." That was 
Tom's greatest fear up to the last two 
years time, that he did not have time 
upon earth to finish it. He expressed 
that not onlv in Yoit ('.(tn't (,<> Home 



Again, and in his credo to Foxhall 
Edwards, but just ten months before 
he died, he talked it over with me. 

He said, "Do you think I am going 
to die?" I said, "You certainly are. 
So am I. But. according to the law of 
averages. I think you should be here 
after I'm dead and gone. What the 
devil's gotten into you?" He said, "I 
don't know. I've been beset with all the 
troubles that ha\e come up with law 
suits, this. that, and the other. I've got 
so much work to do. The doctors have 
told me that I've got to quit." 

But he didn't. He kept on working 
until he had completed about a million 
and a half words of manuscript, and 
turned it in. in completed ty{)escript. to 
Ed Aswell. his new editor at Harper 
Brothers. He then took a trip west. And 
of course, on that trip, it resulted in his 
death. He was taken sick. 

CHBONICLE: Do you think his 
characters are more important than 
the j)lot? 

WOLFE: That's a little hard to 
an.swer. I think that he had a thing 
to tell you as he went through both 
Look Homeuard AngeL which was, of 
course, a trial, a struggle, an attem])t. 
that was his first book. His main aim 
/continued on page --i 

MIKE MEDLOCK 




"T 



he time is near Dr. Sam." 

Sam Willis hccame aware of the 
strong ehony hand on his shoulder. Sit- 
ting; up he asked. "How much far- 
ther?" 

"Three, mayhe four hend. I think 
mayhe you like to come in awake." 

"Yes. thank you Sahlue. T need time 
to get ready." 

The dugout glided smoothly over the 
water, swaying gently to the dip of the 
paddles. "This is where we enter. Dr. 
Sam," Sahlue said, pointing to an 
opening in the river grass. 

The dugout glided silently from the 
broad expanse of the river into the 
forbidding darkness of the tributary. As 
the dank foliage of jungle closed like 
a shroud around them, the once gay 
and festive countenance of the pad- 
dlers died, until the last chords of 
their chants hung like a lump in eacli 
throat. The heavy stench of decay, com- 
bined with lighter wafts of an occa- 
sional flower, produced an ominous 
atmosphere. 

But here also was beauty. Cypress 
and other trees rose majestically push- 
ing intertwining, finger-like branches 
one hundred and fifty feet or more in 
the sky, forming a canopy over all be- 
neath. 

Leaves as large as a man and as dark 
as a magnolia adorned each plant. Flow- 
ers, large and bright in reds, yellows, 
or an occasional blue or white were 
placed in startling contrast against 
their dark background. The water over 
which they passed was stained ebony 
by the many plants, and reflected each 
detail above its surface. A low, gur- 
gling murmur erupted from the canoe 
as its bow cut the water and com- 
bined with the cry of a bird. 

Sam sat silently, staring into the 
gloom, oblivious of all around him. He 
tried to prepare for what he had to 
do, how to act, most important what 
he would say. But as had happened 
each time he tried to plan, has thoughts 
became cluttered with memories. 

"One more bend." 

Sam checked his pistol. "Habit," he 
mused to himself. "Best to be pre- 
pared." As the canoe rounded the last 
bend they came upon a large clearing 
that contained a number of huts, all 
constructed of branches or sticks with 
thatched roofs. 

"Where does Kamu stay?" 
"In the center of the house; the one 
with the sign," Sahlue replied. 

As the canoe was beached, a small 
crowd of onlookers gathered and stared 



coldly at the traders. Sam stood, stepped 
onto the land, and waited for Sahlue 
to join him. 

"Tell them we come in peace to 
speak to their noble chief. Kamu." 

"So now I am a noble chief, my 
friend," Kamu said as he walked 
through the crowd. "It has been a long 
time, Salamu!" 

"Habari, Kamu; yes, a very long 
time. I hardly recognized you in those 
clothes." 

"These clothes are very practical 
here in the jungle; but enough of this. 
Come to the hut and we will talk and 
drink." 

The crowd parted as Kamu ap- 
proached. They walked through the 
village to the center hut. Kamu raised 
the skin which served as the door and 
entered. Sam followed. A caressing dim- 
ness closed around them; friendly odors 
of food and beer greeted their nos- 
trils. 

As his eyes became accustomed to 
the darkness, Sam found that three 
women were also in the hut. Two were 
working on a sleeping rug. while the 
third and youngest was grinding meal. 
Each was dressed in the traditional 
Foota which wrapped tightly around 
the hips but left the breasts free. 

"There are my wives." 

"Bakiya muzuri!" the youngest said. 

Sam also answered, then remembered 
that a man never answered a woman's 
greetings. Kamu sat heavily on a rug 
and spoke to one of the women in 
Swahili. She began preparing beer 
and placed it before him. 

"Kamu, do you know why I am 
here?" 

"Yes, my friend, I know." 

"Will you help me or do you plan 
to resist?" 

Kamu lifted the bowl of beer, then 
looking at it, replied, "We went to 
school together. Do you remember how 
we talked of helping my people?" 

"Yes, that's why I'm here . . . ." 

"Please, let me finish. You went on 
to medical school, while I came back 
to my people. I have seen both sides. 
I know what it is like in your world, 
and here in mine." 

"You know I have come to bring 
medicine to your people. We want to 
bring them up from the ignorant sav- 
ages they are, to make useful citizens 
out of them." 

"To make useful citizens, yes. But 
useful to whom?" 

"Don't play games, Kamu; you 
know I want to help your people." 

"Yes, yes, Sam. Let us stop our 



quarreling. We were close friends once, 
we still can be. But here, drink. It will 
soon be time for the meal. You must be 
tired." 

Later Sam and Kamu entered the 
Suku hut where all the warriors ate. 
No woman has ever entered for any rea- 
son, or any warrior while in this vil- 
lage eaten elsewhere. 

After the meal, Sam sat enraptured 
by the beer and the stories the old ones 
told; stories of their youth, of war and 
raids, of hunts and death. Sam listened 
and tried to understand. But the lan- 
guage and the beer that was con- 
tinually passed soon fogged his brain. 

"We will sleep now," Kamu's words 
roused Sam from his dreaming. 

"Good idea. Been a long journey." 

As they left the Suku, the moon was 
rising and a single beautiful moun- 
tain peak could be seen in the distance. 

"Look." Kamu said. "It is seldom 
you can see the top." 

"It is beautiful. We'll have to climb 
it someday." 

"I do not think the gods would like 
us climbing on their mountain." 

"The gods! What gods?" Sam asked 
trying to sort out truth from beer. 

"Our gods. They live on M'Kamo. 
You will sleep here," Kamu pointed 
to a hut. "We shall talk tomorrow." 

"uh-Bakiya muzuri, Kamu." 

"That means goodbye. You mean 
Deka muzuri!" 

Sam nodded his head and stumbled j 
through the doorway. By luck he fell 
on a sleeping mat and lay still. The ' 
hut seemed to be tilting to one side; 
he was rolling off the mat. He sat up. 
The room .settled down but his stomach 
started to churn. He felt by his side and 
found a pitcher. He pressed it to his 
lips. It was full of beer. "Oh, God," he 
groaned. He lay back; the room tilted; 
he sat up; the room leveled. His stom- 
ach churned. 

.Someone entered the hut and .sat i 
down next to him. Sam tried to think 
of the words in Swahili. he wanted 
water. He finally gave up. The hut was 
slowly turning around him. He reached 
out to get his balance. His hand touched 
something soft and warm. His mind 
reeled. What could it be? He quickly 
withdrew his hand; he had touched a 
girl's breast. 

"Oh, God, not tonight," Sam mum- 
bled; then he groaned. His head was 
turning now. The room had stopped, 
he wished the room would start turning 
again. If his head kept turning, it might 
come off. The girl moved closer. Sam 
slowly shook his head, No, not tonight. 



"Hapana. Hapana. Hapana muzuri!" 
he finally managjed. '"Sleep, 1 want to 
sleep. Go away!" The girl left. He lay 
down. The room started to tilt again. 
Higher and higher the far wall rose. 
He got up; the room started to settle 
down but started to spin. So did his 
stomach. "Oh, hell." he groaned. He 
passed out. 

A dull pounding in his temples 
caused him to turn over. He gave a 
groan and covered his eyes. Suddenly 
a glare of light flashed across his face. 
A wet rag was placed on his forehead. 
He opened his eyes. Kamu's youngest 
wife was leaning over him. washing 
his face. His mouth felt like a fungus 
had heen growing in it. He swallowed 
and managed to croak. "Water, can I 
have some water?" He made a sign 
like drinking. 

She brought him a calabash of water, 
which he used freely, then dumped the 
rest over his head. She offered him 
.some food. "Hapana akisanti. no thank 
you." he shook his head. 

A bright light filled the hut as some- 
one entered. '"Ah. Sam. you are awake 
at last." 

"Oh. Lord!" .Sam moaned, holding 
his head. "\^hat was in that beer?" 

"You will feel better after you eat. 
Ye.s. yes. you must eat; we shall hunt 
today." 

"I didn't come up here to hunt. Any- 
way I think Tm going to be sick." 

"I know, I know, but it is a great 
honor to be asked to hunt with the 
warriors." 

"Oh. all right," Sam said, lying down 
again. He noticed the woman was leav- 
ing. "Akisanti; thank you," he said, 
faking a smile. He noticed a .slight 
cloud crossing Kamu's face. "She is a 
woman. I forgot." 

"I understand, but you must re- 
member that the ways are difTerent 
here." 

"That's why I came," Sam sat up, 
then holding his head, lay back again. 

"We will talk of it later." 

After Kamu left. .Sam lay for a long 
while looking up at the spots of light 
visible through the thatching. He heard 
the sounds of village life outside. He 
again tried to j)lan. but was left ns 
muddled as before. In the distance a 
cock crew/ a dog barked, a mother 
sang to her child. Finally he got up 
and .slowly lifted the blanket, trying to 
lessen the blast of sunlight. He made 
his way outside, then standing as 
straight as po.ssible under the low 
/continued on next pape 




^•-^^.■■■■|^- 



ILLUSTRATED BY C. FLOYD 



MANSIONS 
IN THE SKY 

By Jimmy Alan Lyons 



CHRONICLE 



eaves, straightened his clothing. 

He walked unsteadily from the hut, 
found Sahlue, got his pack, shaved, 
washed, then returned to the center hut. 
"Are you ready to hunt, Kamu?" he 
asked as he entered. 

Kamu sat sharpening his knife and 
spear blades. Without looking up he 
answered, "One moment, please. Doc- 
tor, then I shall join you." 

Sam sat, and watched as the blade 
rasped back and forth over the stone. 
At each pass, a glint of light was re- 
flected, giving the impression of gems 
slowly turning in the light. Deadly 
gems; gems designed to kill. The pat- 
terns they produced were like some dis- 
tant ballet on a great stage. Leading 
the soul and thoughts into a strange 
world of wonder and magic. 

"Now I am ready. Shall we join the 
warriors?" Kamu carefully placed the 
knife in its sheath. "You never know 
when you need a sharp knife. It might 
mean the difference between life . . . 
and death." 

Leaving the hut they were joined 
first by Sahlue, then the village war- 
riors. While Kamu spoke to the war- 
riors. Sahlue whispered to Sam. "I 
cannot hunt with you today." 
"Why not?" 

"My tribe does not hunt with these." 
"I may need you today." 
"I am sorry, Bwana Sam, I cannot." 
"All right, Sahlue, I understand." 
Sam watched as Sahlue joined the 
rest of his party at the canoe, then he 
walked to Kamu's side. 

"We are ready, Doctor, whenever 
you like." 

Sam winced at the native's too-cor- 
rect English. "Why have you started 
calling me Doctor? You never did be- 
fore." 

"Have I been? I had not noticed, 
but if it bothers you . . ." 

"No! no ... I was only wondering." 
Sam turned and looked to Sahlue, "Ba- 
kiya muzuri, goodbye." 

"Nenda muzuri, good luck," Sahlue 
returned. 

The small band, with two scout 
warriors in front and the rest following, 
left camp. They wound through the 
heavy underbrush moving away from 
the river, up toward the mountain. 
Here the foliage was so thick overhead 
that little light penetrated, and the 
undergrowth became scarce. Onward 
they traveled, higher onto the great 
plateau that lay before the mountain. 

At midday, they stopped upon a 
small rise that overlooked the plateau. 
The warriors produced meat from their 
pouches and began eating. Sam sat. 



his back against a boulder, eating the 
last of his rations. "Kamu," he said, 
"Will you help or will you try to stop 
progress?" 

"Sam, my friend, we have known 
each other for many years, but always 
in your world. You must understand 
my people and my world before you 
can help." 

"I have been in Africa many years. 
I know the country." 

"Yes, yes, you know Africa, but 
you know it through the eyes of a 
foreigner." 

"I am no more foreign than you. 
You were educated in London." 

"I was educated in London. I came 
back to my country to change it, to 
make it like London. But now I have 
looked. I have seen this country and 
London. They are not the same." 

"Listen. Kamu. We both know this 
is a different world, but it can change. 
These people can come up to be useful 
citizens. You did. Would you deny them 
their chance?" 

"Their chance? Their chance at 
what? A place in a world running 
wild? A chance to become American 
Indians, Polynesians?" 

"Would you deny them their chance 
to develop?" 

"But you see, Sam. here my people 
develop, but they develop in terms of 
their own world." 

"But you are keeping them savages. 
You are keeping them from being hu- 
man beings!" 

"Sam, Sam, don't get upset. Here, 
eat. We have a long way to walk." 

"Don't try to put me off. Kamu. Tell 
me, what right do you have to keep 
your people from developing into use- 
ful human beings?" 

"What right do you have to say 
that your world, the world of the white 
man, is the only world? You may live 
in your world, but you can't make 
others live there and be content." 

"No, you have it wrong. I don't want 
you to live by our rules. I. . ." 

"No, Sam. You are wrong. If we 
accept your medicines and help, we 
must accept your government, then 
your laws, then we must either die 
or become your underlings." 

"Kamu, Kamu. What do you have 
against me or my world? Haven't we 
produced the greatest civilization ever 
know to man? Have we not . . ." 

"I have no hatred for you or for your 
world," Kamu said, getting up and 
looking at the mountain across the pla- 
teau. "I know my people ... I shall do 
what they want and what is best for 
them. I was made chief when I re- 
turned. My people expect me to guide 



them and to protect them. My people 
are happy here. They have a meaning 
in life. If I do as you wish, they will 
no longer have a meaning. They will 
become cogs — figures — machines. They 
will become civilized." 

"Would you keep them from the 
advantages of civilization?" 

"I must. We must have meaning." 

"Kamu, I will ask you once again 
to help me. You must either be for me 
or against me." 

"No. Sam. It is not that simple." 

"I have a job to do. It will be done, 
even if you kill me. Others will follow." 

Kamu stood looking into the dis- 
tance, his hand resting on his knife. 
"Do you see that mountain? It is said 
the gods live there. No man has ever 
climbed to the top and returned. Shall 
we climb it?" 

"I thought we came to hunt." 

"That we did; but all must change 
their plans. Will you climb with me?" 

Sam sat looking at the cloud-shroud- 
ed cliffs, the jagged pinnacle clutching 
at the sky. "I will climb with you," he 
said. 

For three days they wound higher 
across the plateau. The jungle had 
given over to a plain that spread into 
seemingly endless rolling savannas. 
Marshes and shallow lakes crowded the 
hollows. Grass and small brush grew 
in profusion. 

On the evening of the third day 
they camped at the base of the moun- 
tain. As they approached, the bleak 
cliffs had grown gigantic in perspective, 
until now they rose like the tremendous 
walls of some ancient city, protecting 
the summit. The shadow of night 
stalked silently across the plain and up 
the battlements, until for a few faint 
moments the snow-capped summit was 
touched with gold. 

"A fit home for gods, don't you 
think. Sam?" 

"Yes, Kamu. If gods lived on earth, 
a mountain would be a suitable home." 
. They stood thus until the last ray 
of light vanished, then returned to 
camp. After a sketchy supper, they 
slept. 

Sam awoke with the sun. Looking 
about, he discovered that he was alone, 
deserted. He stood, throat dry. hand on 
pistol. What was he to do; lost, de- 
serted. He knew he could never find his 
way through the savanna. An over- 
powering fear, a cold black thing that 
crept throughout his brain, conquered 
him. He wanted to run; to crv out for 
help; to escape the brush, the trees, 
the grass, the dust. He tried to run, to 
scream. At his right the brush moved, 
/continued on page 32 



10 




5fie 5amm^ oj tfie Sdvew 

To celebrate the 400th. Anniversary of 
the birth of the famous poet of Stratford- 
On-Avon, the CHRONICLE offers these 
scenes from one of Shakespeare's most 
delightful comedies. The company is 
Players, Incorporated from the Catholic 
, University in Washington, D.C. 



CHRONICLE 



Shakespeare. He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poe. 




12 



had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of natui 




PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOFF GROAT & MIKE MEDIOCK 



CHRONICLE 



13 



;till present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily; when he describes 




anything, you more than see it, you feel it too." JOHN DRYDEX 




CHRONICLE 



15 



Three Exercises 



l)V John Fowler 



1. 

So now our lo\c lias melted and the joke 
Of strict denouements izrhn finality 
Has come to tear asunder you and me. 
And what was almost bond remains as smoke. 
Somewhere outside our world a word once spoken 
Of joys and hopes and words which cannot be. 
Commands now silence: and if searching, we 
Must find the magic charm forever broken. 

Now splashing, unsought tears come in the rain. 
A haunting word stalks slowly, unbegot 
Amid the grinning guise of unexplain, 
Frustration's fears, the sorrow of the lot. 
A little love unbearable, profane: 
A little word too dark to whisper: 

not. 



if after this is done we two should turn, 
each separate, yet guided by one thought, 
and think upon these fleeting moments bought 
from time most dearly, never to return. 

if, i should say, if seeking to amend, 

we think about what might have been with such 

free tears, yet let us not regret too much 

what past us now can never come again. 

'tis better now to look to silent hearts, 
ignore the past where things have come undone, 
where deathless beauty broke in broken parts; 
and know that if the tliought for both is one, 
two hearts, two .spirits, two to us imparts 
a unity, a wholeness just begun. 







I joined it early (gladly). 
Embraced its teachings with my whole heart. 
For here surely I thought will be revealed to me 
My rightful portion of the goodness which it 

guarantees and says has befallen millions of 

past embracers. 

So I came and prayed and lived the purest life 

And waited and helped with each day's slipping away into 

night. 
Through a season or two. 
I knew surely that something would come to me sooner or 

later. 

My belief did not fail me. 

Nor was it the world's unstudied disinterest, which I had 

expected for a while. 
(Surely my newfound brimming radiance would change 

that.) 
What diminished me in the end was, must have been. 
The continual dumb waiting and falling back on dark 

nights. 
Until finally I concluded that God would never send me a 

revelation of the kind which they had promised. 



TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY 

BY JIM BARNES 



Rajo Calima was. as usual, hot and 
humid. I had been takinp my siesta 
after lunch when I was awakened hy 
the sound of Lozano's voice on the 
front porch. "Delgado has drowned! 
Get Mario and the palm cutters. \'i'e're 
going to try to get his hody." 

I was dre.ssed and on the porch as 
Lozano and Dago swung their launch 
around and di.sappeared around the 
bend of the river leaving a 'V shaped 
trail of churning water and the dying 
sound of the grinding motor. 

"What happened?" 

"Delgado drowned up the river." 

"When?" 

"About half an hour ago," Mario 
yelled back as he headed for the I FA 
launch with a coil of rope over his 
shoulder. ".Mario, hold the launch. 
Manfred is getting his suit." 

I slid three long poles into the 
launch and stuffed my hat down over 
my head. We fish-tailed against the 
bank from the rain-swollen current 
ru.shing under and around the launch. 

Manfred ran to the top of the bank, 
tripped, slid down the muddy slope. 

"Have you get the rope?" 

"Yeah, hop in. let's go." 

Mario ripped the starter cord, and 
spun the launch around. Manfred and 
I sat on the bow until we leveled off. 

"Stump on the left! . . . thump . . . 
another one on the left. O.K. you're 
all-right now." 

Rain pelted down on us in sheets. 
Water trickled down off my head and 
gathered in ticklish drops on the end 
of my no.se. Only yesterday I had talked 
with Delgado over plans for the colony. 



"I should be getting the pumps for 
the gas and oil tanks by the end of 
this week. The fi.shing lodge is nearly 
finished, so we ought to be getting some 
tourism going pretty soon." 

"How about the hotel loan?" 

"The government still hasn't decided 
yet." Delgado poured another aguar- 
diente. "I ought to find out this month." 

Delgado reached under the counter 
and pulled out the aguardiente, and 
[)oured two more shots. 

"Salt, or lemon?" 

"Lemon." 

Delgado raised his glass, and grinned 
widely, .showing his big silver tooth. 

"Here's to Calima." 

"Pesetas." 

We gulped down the aguardiente and 
bit into the lemon. Delgado fingered 
his mustache and walked over to the 
door. 

"Diego, come out here and take a 
look at this generator. I've been having 
trouble with it." 

We walked around in back of the 
hotel. Children raced back and forth 
on tlie muddy soccer field squealing 
and falling in the mud. Delgado 
cranked the motor. It sputtered and 
wheezed. 

"Try it again." 

Delgado cranked it. Fuel spurted out 
of the gas line and oozed down on the 
floor. 

"The line's cracked. I'll have to take 
it to Buenaventura tomorrow and get 
it welded." 

"Christ." Delgado said, "If the gov- 
ernment would run a branch line in 
here it'd be a lot cheaper and easier 
than screwing with this. There isn't 



a hellavalot we can do with six watts." 
Delgado pitched the crank into the 
corner. Back in the hotel the cracking 
of billiard balls could be heard as two 
villagers in straw hats drank beer over 
the game. Outside on the porch a thin, 
half plucked looking rooster pecked 
crumbs off the floor as they fell from 
the mouth of a small, fat stomached 
naked boy. He stood grinning and 
watching the rooster eat. then he kicked 
him off the porch, and squealed with 
laughter. 

Delgado and I sat down on the edge 
of the porch. 

■■\^ hen is the next meeting of the 
junta?" 

"We had one last Sunday; two 
came." Delgado poked his foot in the 
gravel, then looked across the street 
at an Indian woman sitting, legs out- 
-stretched, on her porch. She leaned 
against a soda crate as she nursed a 
baby in her arms. Two Indian boys 
with bowl type hair cuts stood next to 
her with their arms crossed over long- 
tailed white shirts, and stared out into 
the street. 

"What time do you have?" Delgado 
asked. 

"Two thirty." 

"Do you want to help us with the 
church for awhile? I told Anastacio 
we'd work on the beams for a while." 

"I can't; Marios's picking me up in 
the launch. I have some book work 
back at I FA to get done." 

"Roman Largacha and I are going 
up tomorrow to work on the fishing 
lodge if you want to go." Delgado .said. 
• • • 

/continued on page 33 



CHRONICLE 



17 



PATTER 

continued from page 6 

has only recently come to light with 
the publication of his "Letters from the 
Earth." 

Philosophically, Twain is a free 
thinker, for he has faith in nothing and 
only believes that which is creditable 
to his intellect. He believes in a uni- 
verse of casualty which is run by some 
supreme scientific principles. These 
mechanical principles are THE LAW 
OF NATURE, which is the same thing 
as THE LAW OF GOD. THE LAW 
OF GOD can exist independent of any 
anthropomorphic being God. 

Although they would be tolerated 
today, such views did not fit nicely on 
top of the late 19th. century thought 
in America. Given the mind of Mark 
Twain, known for its flying sarcasm 
and bitter wit, the Bible, a heterogene- 
ous book written by a multitude of 
inconsistent men, and Twain's philoso- 
phy, one could only expect a bitter de- 
railment of all that was considered 
good in Twain's time. 

Letters jrum the Earth is a series 
of elcvent epistles written by an angel 
named Satin to his buddies above. 
Satin describes the attempts of Occi- 
dental man in creating the Judeo- 
Christian religious tradition. He points 
out the inconsistencies, not between 
religion and other fields of human be- 
havior but in the body of religious 
thoughts per se. 

Satin notices that man," ... at his 
very best is a sort of low grade nicklc- 
plated angel; at his worst he is un- 
speakable, unimaginable!" He is afraid 
that the recipients of his epistles will 
not believe that man is so ignorant, 
therefore he calls man the "noblest 
work of God". 

Particularly confusing to Satin is the 
concept of heaven man has created. In 
this heaven man has left out "the su- 
premest of all his delights", sexual in- 
tercourse. When he finds that man has 
created a heaven where all are alike. 
Satin is completely floored, for he does 
not ha\e to look far to learn that ". . . 
white men will not associate with 'nig- 
gers' nor mary them . . .", and that 
". . . All the world hates the Jew, 
and will not endure him except when 
he is rich." 

Religions befuddle the visitor from 
above, since there are hundreds and 
hundreds, and at least three new oms 
are launched each year. Satin observes 
that the Bible is an almagamation of 



older bibler, with heaven and hell ad- 
ded. He then goes into a long account 
to show the illogical nature of the story 
of creation and the flood. Since the 
Old Testament has been tacitly dis- 
carded by many religions, and passed 
off as allegory by others, these accounts 
are not as effective against today's 
reader as they would have been against 
the Puritan elements of Twain's hey- 
day. It is too bad that the Letters were 
not published much earlier. 

Sex morals are attacked .so vigor- 
ously that Hugh Heffner's head would 
swim. Twain shows that modesty is 
merely a custom of dress, and believes 
that immodesty and a soiled mind are 
passed to the children by their mother's 
frantic ravings on modesty. "A Chris- 
tian mother's first duty is to soil her 
child's mind, and .she does not neglect 
it. Her lad grows up to be a missionary 
and goes to the innocent savages and 
the civilized Japanese, and soils their 
minds." 

Twain's indictment of the "God in 
my image" view that most men hold 
is most bitter. He shows the discontin- 
uity in the Christian God from the 
Hebrew God of hate to the introduction 
of a monotheistic, universal God and 
then the Jesus — God is Love dualism. 
Why wasn't God the .same Twain asks. 
—BILL MEGGS 



THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY 
MAGAZINE 

There are more than 7.000 periodi- 
cals published in the United States 
today and almost four billion copies of 
these magazines are sold each year. 
From Benjamin Franklin's "General 
Magazine" to the weeklies and month- 
lies of today, magazines have both re- 
flected and helped to mould American 
tastes, habits, manners, interests, and 
beliefs. In recent years there has been 
an ever increasing general awareness of 
the importance of all public communi- 
cations. In attempting to fulfill their 
ever increasing responsibilities, mag- 
azines have become more factual and 
less imaginative. They put forward 
more journalism and less literature. 
For instance, the feature article has re- 
placed the familiar essay. In editorial 
content the once valid distinction be- 
tween class and mass magazines has 
virtually disappeared. Similarity of 
subject choice and treatment between 



these two general groups is more and 
more apparent. 

A brief history of one of the oldest, 
most interesting, and most successful 
of today's magazines will now be given 
in order to give credence to some of 
the foregoing generalities. This maga- 
zine is the "Atlantic". 

"The Atlantic Monthly Magazine", 
as it was first called, was conceived by 
Francis H. Underwood as early as 
1853, but it was not until 1857 that he 
had assembled the necessary number 
of backers and contributors. Numbered 
among those contributors were such 
American literary giants as: Haw- 
thorne, Thoreau, Whittier, Harriet 
Beecher Stowe. Emerson, Longfellow, 
Oliver Wendell Holme-s, and James Rus- 
,sell Lowell. 

Underwood wanted to have an es- 
sentially American magazine that could 
bring the literary influence of New 
England to aid the antislavery cause. 
He wanted the contents of the maga- 
zine to be devoted to literature, art, 
and politics. Realizing that he needed 
a man of literary prestige for editor. 
Underwood attained James Russell 
Lowell as the first editor. In the fall 
of 1857, the first issue of "The Atlan- 
tic Monthly Magazine" was published. 

In its early years the "Atlantic" (as 
it is now called) was to be almost 
everything that Underwood had in- 
tended it to be. It was strictly an 
American magazine, although most of 
its contributors were from the Boston 
area (most other American magazines 
of this time obtained a majority of 
.their literary material from England). 
It concerned itself with literature and 
art, but avoided the political and social 
fields. Because it was a periodical ve- 
hicle for the best American writers 
of its time, the "Atlantic" made a ma- 
jor contribution to the development of 
nineteenth century American Litera- 
ture. 

William Dean Howells (editor from 
1871 to 1881) made this magazine 
more a national periodical when he 
began to run material by such authors 
as Mark Twain and Bret Harte. 
I continued on page 40 




GENTLEMEN'S CHOICE 



CHRONICLE 



19 



M 




».-^" 




PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOfF GROAT 



\^OLFE 

continued from page 7 
was to tell the truth about a character. 
The main theme was based absolutely 
on fact, from the weather of his own 
experience, from the time he was a boy. 
able to remember, until he completed 
the manuscript. 

CHRONICLE: Do you think your 
brother's using people from real life 
and putting them into his books, and 
changing them to a certain extent, 
helped or hindered his books? 

WOLFE: I don't think that they 
would have lived for five minutes. If 
he had reached up in the air. and he 
had grabbed it, and he had built an 
illusionary character, there would have 
been no lasting feeling, no quality to 
it. I think if there was anything to Tom 
as a writer, it was answering the very 
question you asked. That's the only 
thing that made him the writer that 
they say he was. 

Everything he wrote was based upon 
absolute fact and embellished; and. oh. 
boy. how he could embellish it. What 
with fictional ramifications, that is 
building up of the characters, you have 
Luke saying something that I wish 
that I had said. And often times. I 
guess I did say lots of these things. 
But he did do that, and then occasion- 
ally, he would take two characters, two 
real characters from life, and he would 
combine the characteristics of the two 
and make one. But if anything, that 
has kept Tom Wolfe before you stu- 
dents, before the younger generation, 
and on down the line. How much lon- 
ger he'll go. I don't know. I hope 
quite a while. I think, it's because he 
wove the fabric of his novels and of his 
writing.*, feelingly, from the weather of 
his own existence, of his own expe- 
riences in life. I don't think that any- 
thing worth while has ever been created 
from somebody else's work, or else from 
pure imagination. 

CHRONICLE: Well, how do most of 
his characters feel, particularly those in 
Asheville. about being used in his 
books ? 

WOLFE: Well. Tom wrote me from 
New York. He said, "Fred. I under- 



stand they've sold 18,000 copies of 
Look Ilomeuard. Angel in Asheville. 
and frankly I don't think that there's 
fifty people there who are capable at 
present of knowing what my purpose 
was. The other 17.950 reading to find 
out what he was writing about Bill, or 
John, or Henry — they didn't give a 
damn about whether it was literature 
or not." Now isn't that true? 

And now we're into a new genera- 
tion, and have been for several years. 
It is entirely a totally different story. 
I think that Tom. in anger, in frustra- 
tion, would cast out and make an at- 
tack, not a slurring attack; but. boy. 
it would be filled with satire. I think 
I have been a.^ked that question several 
times, if he were a satirist. Definitely, 
but he had to be one to bring out the 
point that he was after. But his under- 
lying fundamental idea was to tell the 
truth. And I think that his love of 
people far outweighed his hatred. Any 
animosity or hatred that he was ex- 
hibiting in talking about certain char- 
acters — I think he had to use satire in 
order to bring his points out. 

CHRONICLE: I'd like to ask you 
one question about one of his plays. 
"V^'elcome to Our City." It had a good 
comment about it. well. I think the 
original title was "Nigger Town." What 
do vo think his attitude would be about 
the racial question today, if he were 
still living and writing? 

V^'OLFE : Tom would have been more 
of an integrationist than a segrega- 
tionist. I feel positive that that's true. 
Now to bear that out. read on page 
^80 or 500 of "You Can't Go Home 
Again"' the promise of .America. And 
his description of the Negro boy. And 
when he comes through and strikes like 
a panther, and he wins with the world's 
championship. Tom used the expression. 
"Oh. driver, where is thy slave ship 
now?" \^'ords to that effect. We never 
discussed segregation and integration 
too much back in those days. But I 
felt that Tom. I may be doing him an 
injustice, in mv opinion, would defin- 
itely be an integrationist. up to a point. 
But not beyond a point. 

CHRONICLE: Do you think Mr. 
Perkins was a help or a hindrance? 



Did you think he helped by cutting 
down a lot of material? 

\^OLFE: I think Max Perkins was 
the greatest book editor that the 20th 
century produced until 1964, based on 
one great virtue. .\ virtue that I wish 
I had. That I would say 9.998 out of 
everv 10.000 don't have. That virtue is 
patience. He had it. While the storm 
raved, whether it was Thomas Mann. 
Scott Fitzgerald. Tom Wolfe. Ernest 
Hemingway, or 25 others who he 
brought out. while they would rave, he 
was calm as the Rock of Gibraltar, and 
when the smoke cleared away, the 
"Fox" had won. 

Tom called him the"Fox"in You Cant 
Go Home Again. No one else but Max 
Perkins would have had that patience 
to put up with the ranting and the rav- 
ing, but he always had his way in the 
end. He was a great help. He was no 
hindrance. 

CHRONICLE: I was thinking of 
that encounter of meeting Tom and F. 
Scott Fitzgerald in the mountains — 
remember you told about meeting Scott 
Fitzgerald and Tom. 

\^'OLFE: Yes. I remember definitely 
the meeting with Scott Fitzgerald. Tom 
(ame back to Asheville. for the first 
time after Look Homeward. Angel in 
seven years. He wasn't physically 
afraid, but he was hurt completely, 
the way he had been eternally damned 
by Ashville. And for that reason it 
was seven years until he got over that 
part and came back. In 1937 in May. 
I drove up from Spartanburg, driving 
my old Chevrolet car. I took about three 
or four days off. I said. "Tom. any 
place you want to go. this is at your 
disposal, or I'll take you." He didn't 
drive. He was always threatening to 
buy one and drive, because he didn t 
like my driving or my conversation. 

So he said, "That's right up my al- 
ley. I'd like to see two friends if you've 
got time to do." I said. "When do 
vou want to go? Tomorrow?" "Yes.' 
From .Asheville back to Tryon. it's only 
a short distance. I think we'd had lunch 
at Hendersonville. went on down to 
Tryon. and stopped at Oak Hall. Tom 
wanted to see both Scott and Hamil- 
I continued on i>age 32 



CHRONICLE 



23 



THE OTHER SIDE OF YJIT30q 



roses are red 
violets are blue 
you're more fun 
than sniffin' glue 

stolen 



Mary had a little lamb, 
She also had a bear. 
I often saw her little lamb, 
But I never saw her .... 



The Four Preps 



THE BUTTERCUP 

Walking through a meadow green, 

1 spied a buttercup, 

The loveliest I'd ever seen — 

I stooped and picked it up. 

I plucked it up from off the grass; 

To taste it I was keen 

But when I took a bite — alas! — 

'Twos only margarine. 

Lieuen Adkins 
Texas Ranger 



There was a young lady from Lynn 
Who thought to love was a sin 
But when she was tight, 
it seemed quite all right 
So everyone filled her with Gin. 

anonymous 



There was an old Mao-te-sung 
Who lived in a shoe 
He had so many Red Chinese 
He didn't know what to do 
He applied for foreign aid 
and the U.S. came through. 

Larry Joe Payne 



"My name is Senor Fidel Castro. 

(You can tell by my beard, which is dash-o) 
I have arms, I have men 

And a round Russian friend. 
And I'll do anything that is rash-o. 

Why I played at revolt is a riddle, 
But I've won and I'm not in the middle. 

So I'll buy me a tuba 

and play for all Cuba, 
(Just like Nero who played on a fiddle.) 

— Victor A. Poirier 



AN ADOLESCENT'S POEM 
(basically) 

I can think of really eleven or twelve 

just current reasons, 
Why I should walk up to you and 

simply goose you as hard as I can. 
By the way as long as we're on the 

subject (you have probably noticed) 
You also fascinate me in other ways, 

but basically first things first. 

Sue F. 



BY TOM SALMONS 



M.he night was hot. and even the 
occasional breeze from the river failed 
to bring any relief from the heat. 
Sounds of the city hung in the air and 
blended with the voices of children 
playing in the street. Somewhere a 
radio screamed the latest hit song, add- 
ing to the melee of sounds. Street lights, 
like forgotten torches, lined the small 
narrow street. Once proud homes, now 
overcrowded with people, thrust their 
steps on to the sidewalk. Overflowing 
trash cans were set out on the side- 
walks. Two men. talking quietly, stood 
under the lamp post on the corner, and 
on every stoop sat tho.se who could not 
stand to be impri.soned in the buildings 
during the heat of the day. The main 
topic of conversation seemed to be the 
'■goddamn heat". 

A large brawny man in his under- 
shirt was leaning against his door tak- 
ing large swigs from a bottle of cheap 
wine. \^ith every gulp from the bot- 
tle he got a little drunker. He said 
little at first, but about halfway through 
the bottle he began cursing under his 
breath. 

■\Swhats the matter with you?" ques- 
tioned one of his companions, a tall 
unkempt man with .several days growth 
of beard. 

"Goddamn niggers!" came the reply. 

"What you got against niggers?" 
a.sked another of the men on the steps, 
as he lit a cigarette. 

"Plenty," .spit out the big man. 
"Them and their goddamn NAACP just 
cost me my job. Ix»usy bastards." 

"How come," asked the taller man. 

"Them black bastards been pickitin' 
my outfit tryin' to get them sonsobitches 
to give them jobs, then some judge 
says they got to let them niggers in. 
so the boss says to me he got to let 
me go so as to make room for them 
blacks. I just wish I had them blacks 
here now. I'd show 'em not to screw 
around with this boy," said the big 
man, emptying the bottle in one last 
gulp. 

As if in answer to his statement, a 
car coming down the street suddenly 
veered out of control and crashed into 
one of the street lights, narrowly miss- 
ing the group of kids playing there. 
With the sound of the crash, the people 



on the steps rushed to the site of the 
accident to see what had happened. A 
well dressed young negro staggered 
from the torn automobile, a gash across 
his forehead bleeding profuselv. The 
blood ran down the side of his face 
staining his white collar. He drunkenlv 
tripped over the curb and grabbed the 
lamp post to steady himself. 

Seeing the young negro, the big man. 
still carrying his now empty bottle. 
screamed. "You drunk nigger I \^"hat 
you tryin' to do. kill our kids? \^hat 
the hell you doin' around here anv- 
h..w?" 

The still dazed driver said nothing. 

"^ou hear me nigger? I ast you a 
question!" There was a short pause 
then. "\^ ell why dont you answer me 
you black bastard?" demanded the 
big man getting very loud. 

"I — I'm very .sorry — ." 

"Hes sorry! Did you hear that? The 
sonobitch is sorry. Fat lot that would 
a done if you'da killed one of our 
kids." he chided. "Are we gonna let 
this black bastard get awav with it?" 
he screamed to his neighbors. 

'"Hell no!" yelled someone in the 
crowd. 

"Kill the bastard!" screamed some- 
one else. 

Hate, like molten lava, spilled through 
the crowd. The once just curious peo- 
ple had become a mindless mob. A beer 
bottle exploded through the alreadv 
damaged windshield of the (ur. A mace 
like fist (aught the negro in the side of 
the face sending him spiraling into the 
crowd where someone smashed a bot- 
tle over his head. .As the voung man 
sank to his knees, a heavy boot caught 
him under the chin, lavinsr open his 
neck. A police siren scninded suddenlv. 
and the mob fled back to their homes, 
leavinsr the broken and bleeding man 
dying beside his battered car. 

The street is quiet now. Only the 
distant .sounds of traffic and the voices 
of the policemen invade the summer 
air. The street lights, with one excep- 
tion, still cast their feeble light on the 
tired old houses. The two men on the 
corner still .stand talking quietly. The 
shorter of the two is heard to say. 

".See how it is mv friend? If we wait 
Ions enough this country will destroy 
itself." 




CHRONICLE 



25 



IDLE GOD 



By W. E. Rowley 



(Priest two is still kneeling, but he is looking at the Idol, 
frowning.) 

Priest two: (Standing) Sire? 

Priest one: Yes? 

Priest two: Sire, the Idol ... it is the God we worshio. 



)us woman: But not tc 



Priest one: He will 



ig out, he goes over to them) Sin! 



Strength (He si 



God — or homage to God — and faith in the Idol 



Priest one: (Alarmed) Boy, Quiet! (He looks around to 

if anyone heard.) 

P;r.,.<: ■^r^nr.-.n- M)' boy, question nothing — put faith in 

- r *fore you. 

Priest one: You give faith in exchange for strength. 
Priest two: But the Idol. . . . 



the Idol, so they put 



!st one: Hold vour 



n: ... In the Idol (sentimentally). It is a 
lan, strong in the strength of youth. It 
ause it is made of stone and jewels. 

To be like it you must give up the world'y 



him I But not too quickly! 
quickly ... in order to gain 



Faith in the Idol . . . who is the symbol of 



Priest two: (Arguing with himself) We are the Priests 
of the Idol — We are to serve the people, we sacrifice our- 
selves so that the people will be taught to have faith — Faith 
to have strength. Strength in Faith in the Diety— in the 
Idol — for the Dietv ... we were created. . . . 

Pious woman: (Hastily, and rather angrily) Created for 
the Idol! (She goes and kneels, head bowed). 

Priest one: (Enters stage left) Boy, get the torches— it's 
growing dark. The people will be coming. 

Priest two: (Ansrily) To the Idol. 



The harvest was eood and the bal 



torious — offerings ! 

^riest two (Bitterly) For the Idol. 

Viest one: (Looking at him curiously) What's eating 
you? 

St two: (Turning on the elder in a fury) I'll tell you 
what's eating me: Nothing; tht nothingness of a carved 
statue — the nothing of the empty space surrounding one small 
planet and each small person. 



Priest one: (In fear) Strength 
\o: Strength in thems 



and in each other, 



t one: (Covering up his ears; she 
*st two: Faith! Faith in themselves 
*st one: Leave, leave, leave! 



the giver of all strength! (Th< 
' Idol — he stare; 



ind Priest one go to the Idol 



Beware Strength 



(Reciting) Beware th 



The Idol: Beware the wisdom. 

Pious woman and Priest one: Beware the wisdom. 

GOD ^■^■■■l^l^^^HI^^^HIH 

Setting: A stage completely bare except for a low plat- 
form in the center. It should not be too highly lit. 

Characters: The Traveler— a man of any race, age or 
type, dressed in ragged clothes in browns and yellows. He 
carries a very beat-up suitcase, a small parcel wrapped in 
brown paper, and a heavy brown overcoat. 

The Pilgrim — A man of any race, age or type, dressed 
in ragged clothes in grays and blues. He carries an over- 
flowing shopping bag, a cardboard box bound with rope, and 
a very worn old hat. 

The Archangel — A rather washed-out looking female of 
indeterminent age with longish straight hair. She is wearing 
a long robe of some kind of rough fabric in white or near- 
white. She's wearing sneakers. She has a rather high, very 
infectious laugh. 

Satan Incarnate — A smooth gentleman in a black suit 
and cape. An evil bastard. 

THE GOD 

(Curtain opens. The Traveler is sitting on the edge 
of a platform at stage center eating his lunch which is spread 
out on the brown paper on his knees. The Pilgrim enters 
stage right.) 

Traveler: Greetings, Pilgrim! 

Pilgrim: Salutations, Traveler — where you headed? 

Traveler: Me? Oh I'm bound for eternity. 

Pilgrim: Aye? Then you'll be headed west (Points stage 
left). 

Traveler: West! I'm headed East. All know eternity is 
toward the rising sun. 

Pilgrim: The SETTING sun, you mean. Headed that 
way myself. We might travel together. 

Traveler: But we're headed in opposite directions! 

Pilgrim: We're headed to the same place, though, so it 
don't make much difference. 

Traveler: Aye (They sit and mull this over, still eating). 

Pilgrim: How long ye been traveling? 

Traveler: Oh, a lifetime, maybe a little longer. 

Pilgrim: For meself — I just got started. 

Traveler: How far you come? 

Pilgrim: Well, I'd set down on this stage and was about 
to commence when you come by. 

Traveler: You've got a long way to go. 

Pilgrim: How far? 

Traveler: I can't say as I rightly know. A good piece. 
(They sit and mull this over a bit.) 



Traveler: Why're you going? 
Pilgrim: Hmmm? Going where? 
Traveler: Eternity! 

Pilgrim: Oh yes, eternity! Don't rightly know. How 
about you. 

Traveler: Oh, people said that is where we're all headed 
anyhow so I thought I'd get an early start. 

Pilgrim: Hmmm. Then you're not seeking nothing? 

Traveler: I am seeking nothing. 

Pilgrim: That's what I said. For meself I'm seeking eter- 
nal contentment. 

Traveler: Thought you "didn't righdy know" why you 
was going. 

Pilgrim: It just occured to me. 

Traveler: A vision, sorta. 

Pilgrim: Yeah. (They sit and mull this over.) 

Traveler: What do you reckon eternal contentment is? 

Pilgrim: Damned if I know! 

Traveler: Reckon it's sorta not having nothing to do all 
day but sit around talking. 

Pilgrim: Yeah, I figure that's just about what it is! 
(They sit and mull this over.) 

Traveler: Reckon you'd be allowed to do the things you 
ain't allowed to do on earth? 

Pilgrim: You wanna cigarette? (Offers him a cigarette 
from a fancy cigarette case. The Traveler takes out a large 
cigarette holder.) 

Traveler: Like (puff, puff I smoking? 

Pilgrim: And stuff. Ya, I reckon. 

Traveler: Ya know, I was just thinking, maybe eternity's 
where you don't WANT that kind of stuff no more. 

Pilgrim: (Starts violently): Then I don't wanna go! 
(Archangel has entered stage center and is standing behind 
them.) 

Archangel: You're already there stupid. (The Traveler 
and the Pilgrim jump up. violently startled.) 

Traveler: Where'd you come from? 

Archangel: I'm the Archangel, I'm all around you. (They 
look around suspiciously, stop and look back at her.) 

Pilgrim: This is eternity. 

Archangel: That's it. 

Pilgrim: But how'd I get here? 

Archangel: You were born here. 

Pilgrim: This is eternity? 

Archangel: You read me loud and clear. 



28 



Pilgrim: I don't like it! (The Traveler and he set about 
gathering up their baggage, no small task) 

Archangel: (Priggishly) And just where do you think 
you're going? 

Traveler: Any place but here. 

Archangel: There IS no place else. 

Pilgrim: (Practically crying) Lemme outa here! 

Archangel: (Matter of factly) There's nothing before 
(she points out toward the sudience) and nothing after (she 
points toward the back of the stage.) 

(The Traveler and the Pilgrim have gathered up their 
effects and are backing away, apprehensively toward stage 
right.) 

Traveler: I'll take nothing over this! 

Archangel: (Laughs, and laughs, and laughs until she's 
practically crying.) 

(The Traveler and Pilgrim turn and run off stage right.) 

Satan: (Enters stage center and sits down next to Arch- 
angel.) What's so funny? 

Anchangel: (Looks at him, feebly points to where the 
Traveler and the Pilgrim disappeared, breaks out laughing 
again.) 

Traveler and Pilgrim: (Enter stage right shouting at each 
other. ) 

Traveler: I told you it was the other way. 

Pilgrim: Well how in the hell was I to know? 

Traveler: Well, get going! 

Pilgrim: All right, all right already. (They exit stage 
left.) 

Satan: (Looking after them) Who was that? (Archangel 
giggles helplessly.) As Satan Incarnate I demand to know! 

Archangel: (Ho, ho, ho) Two dolts (Ha, ha) who think 
(he, he, he) that they can find (giggle) something besides 
eternity (.she breaks down completely.) 

Satan: (Looks in the direction in which the Traveler 
and the Pilgrim existed last with evident interest and exits 
after them — laughing.) 

THE IDLE GOD Hl^HHHHHHi^H^HH 

Setting: A bare stage, dimly lit except for a more strongly 
illuminated area slightly to stage left. A plain wooden straight 
chair is in the right portion of the well lit area. A small 
table is in a corresponding position on the left portion of the 
stage. On the table are a rather disorderly pile of papers. 
A highly ornamented upright cross, encrusted with gilt and 
bright stones, acts as a paperweight. It contrasts strongly 
with the crudity of the furniture. 

Characters: God; a male of any age, size, shape or char- 
acter — it is totally unimportant. He is dressed in darkish gray 




^•.. ••••V -. .: ^ 



CHRONKXE 



29 




or brown suit and a plain shirt of gray or brown buttoned 
at the neck with no tie. dark shoes and socks and no jewelry 
except for a large ring of the same style of the cross — very 
showy. 

Man: A young male of handsome build and features wear- 
ing dark slacks and shoes and a white sport shirt open at the 
neck and sleeves rolled up. He is wearing a large wrist 
watch. 

Heaven: An elderly male of any type. He is dressed in 
black and has white hair. He wears some type of glasses. 



Sex: \ pretty 
and flat shoes. 



irl in a plain light gray or tan dress 



THE IDLE GOD 

Heaven: I Entering from the darkness upper stage cen- 
ter. He clears his throat and recites 
Rejoice 

Rejoice 

The world is sad 

Dance 

The world is mad 

Laugh 

Death is near 

Sing 

There is fear 

God is gone 

And man is dying 

Life is gone 

And man is crying 

Rejoice 

The end is near 

God ( has entered stage left and is now standing to Heav- 
en's left slightly upstage. He is watching him intensely.) Oh 
shutup. 

Heaven: (Starts) Yessir. 

God : I am bored I I He watches the effect of this statement 
on Heaven, getting none he turns and sits down in the chair.) 
1 am so bored that I'll cry! (to Heaven) Oh shutup! You 
know very well I'm not going to cry. (Long pause) There 
is no god I I He eyes Heaven.) Well? (He shrugs.) Man 
has no proof that God exists. ( He watches Heaven. ) I am 
God, I should know whether I exist or not! (Slumping back 
in the chair.) I must exist — if I didn't exist why would 
they venerate me? You wouldn't venerate something that 
you didn't know existed, would you? (He is growing very 
annoyed. He starts pacing the stage.) I am the creator, if I 
don't exist I'll create myself and then I'll exist! 

Man: (Appearing near Heaven, watching him closely.) 
You better not — you might botch it. You botched up earth, 
you know. 

God: (Taking man's presence for granted although 
Heaven is visibly startled. I Who are you to decide whether 
I botched it or not? 

Man: (They are arguing with growing heat.) I am 
Earth — and you botched! 

God: EARTH . . . 

Man: "MAN." 

God: MAN . . . will do as I damn well please. You're 
late. 

Heaven: (He has sat down in the chair in bewilderment.) 
Rejoice! 

God and Man : Shut-up ! 



Man: (to God) What do you mean, 'i'm late?" 

God : You were destined to come here, you were destined 
to come here at an appointed time, and I was destined to 
say: "You are late." 

Man : ( Goes over to the chair, waving Heaven out of the 
way. sits down.) Ordained by whom? 

God: What? 

Man: What! 

God: Me. 

Man: Oh. 

Heaven: Rejoice! (Man and God both swivel towards 
him. He calmly rolls up his papers and exits stage center.) 

God: (.Assuming a stance for oratory by the table.) I 
created all and I shall destroy all. . . . 

Man: When? 

God: None of your Goddam business! 

Man : ( Sarcastically ) Sorry ! 

God: Ahem. . . . 

Man: (Addressing himself and the audience) You know, 
many on Earth. Preachers, Politicians, and pornographers. 
mostly, say that God created the world perfect, and man per- 
fect, but that man screwed up himself and the world. 

God: It's a lie. I made both of you the way you are and 
ordained how you would be — I created the beauty of the 
emerald forest, of sapphire lakes; the horror of flaming holo- 
caust and cursing wind; the love of a tender child and a 
strong mother. 

Man: (Reverently) Then it is true, you are both God the 
creator of all that is good and Satan the perpetrator of 



sits down heavily in the 
tage right. Heaven appears 



God : Don't get nasty ! ( H 
chair.) Sex! (Sex appears from 
from stage left.) 

God: Well? 

Man: Well? 

Heaven: Rejoice (he is ignored.) 

God: All is ordained: birth, growth, love, lust, death. 
Death! 

Man: And you watch over a world, a universe, of beings. 
You ordain the path for each — and judge each? 

God: Don't be silly! It's all written down on these papers. 
(He swings his arm to indicate the papers and knocks the 
cross off the table.) 

Man : There are so few papers. ( He speaks quietly and 
slowly.) 

God: Of course. The same thing keeps happening over 
and over. Perhaps a bit more quickly, perhaps in greater 
numbers and more . . . grossly (he laughs) but I was 
rushed. 

Man: (Slowly, bitterly, he looks at each of the players: 
Sex, Heaven, and then God ) Then all this, everything, every- 
thing everywhere, you (to God), or I — no one (indicating 
Heaven and Sex) can do anything — nothing. (He begins to 
laugh.) You, God Almighty, tied by your own proclamation 
of destiny ... on your sheets of pajjer. And you, nor anyone 
else, can do a damned thing about it! 

God: Drop dead! (Man drops dead, heavily overturning 
the table and papers. God sits on the chair majestically. Sex 
remains kneeling at stage center.) 

Heaven: Rejoice! 



ALEXANDER'S 

DRUG STORE 






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i> 



WK 



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KEEP YOUR 
EXTRA 
MONEY 

FORT 

HILL 

SAVINGS 

&LOAN 

CLEMSON 




CHRONICLE 



31 



MANSIONS 

continued from page 10 
a twig snapped. Pulling his pistol he 
pointed it toward the sound, his finger 
tightened: Kamu stepped out. 
"So you are awake at last." 
"Where is everyone? Have they 
gone ahead?" 

"They have returned to the village. 
We will climb alone." 

"Alone? How can we carry enough 
food and equipment to last to the top 
and back?" He got up, "That is a 
mountain you know!" 

"We have no need for equipment 
and a few days food is not much." 
With this, Kamu turned and re-entered 
the brush. 

Sam stood, hesitant, unable to think. 
Was he at the mercy of a madman? 
A mountain like this couldn't be 
climbed without equipment. But neither 
could he find his way across the savan- 
na. He picked up his sleeping rug and 
followed. 

At the base of a ridge, Kamu gave 
Sam a small package of food, enough 
for two days at most. "We will not 
need more," he said. All day they 
climbed along the ridge. At each rest 
Kamu looked upward at the summit. 
Some force seemed to have possessed 
him. They talked little. Sam had never 
climbed as high without a rope. At 
each step he felt as if he might plunge 
downward into death's clutching fin- 
gers, but some power compelled him 
to follow Kamu higher, ever higher. 

With the approach of evening, 
Kamu stopped the assault just short of 
an ice fall. Sam collapsed against a 
rock and lay, unable to move. Kamu 
spread the sleeping rugs, sat on his. 
and started to eat. "It is hard to climb 
to the top," he said, Jooking out over 
the plain toward the jungle. "One must 
work to enter the house of the gods." 
Sam, who had now recovered some 
of his strength, sat heavily on his rug. 
"What makes you think gods live here? 
It is just another place, another damn 
place." 

"No, my friend. This is not just 
another place. These towers and ridges 
are the spires and walls of a great man- 
sion. I know, believe me, this is a man- 
sion fit for gods. Could a man build 
this? No! No man can build like this. 
No man ever will. They will never be 
able to desecrate it. This is a mansion 
in the sky." 

"If this is only for gods, why have 
you brought me here?" 

"It is getting late. Soon it will be 
cold. Eat now. We will talk tomorrow 
on the summit." 

Sam was too tired to argue. He ate 
in silence. It was so strange to be cold. 



He hadn't been cold since he had left 
London, he forgot how many years ago. 
As he lay back to sleep, he became 
aware of the silence. After years of 
insects and animals moving in the 
night, the silence frightened him. He 
had to get away for awhile. This place 
was getting him down. He remembered 
what Kamu had said about his being a 
foreigner. Could he have been right? 
After all these years he was still an 
auslander, a foreigner. 

With the sun, they began their climb. 
Onward, ever higher. Kamu leading; 
Sam stumbling heavily behind. They 
stopped at midday under an out-crop- 
ping and ate. 

"Why have you brought me here, 
Kamu? What do you want to gain by 
delaying? Progress will come here, just 
like it has spread over the whole 
world." 

"I know; I cannot stop progress. I 
have tried, but still men come up the 
river." 

"Then why have you brought me 
here?" 

"To kill you." 

"To what!" Sam reached for his 
pistol. It was gone. 

"I removed it last night. I did not 
want to be shot." 

"Kamu, you must be crazy. We were 
friends once. You cannot kill me." 

"You are right, Sam. We were 
friends. I cannot kill you. If I could I 
would have done it in the village. No, 
I cannot kill you nor can I stop pro- 
gress. I have failed my people but I 
will not fail myself. We shall die on 
this mountain. We shall die in the 
hands of the gods." 

"You're crazy. Do you think I am 
just going to stand here and die? It 
will be one or the other of us." 

"I have said that I would not kill 
you. I will not. You are free to go . . ." 

"Free to go? I can't get down off 
this mountain alone." 

"I know, I know. Shall we climb?" 

Kamu started climbing laboriously 
around the overhang. He looked back 
to see Sam starting down. "I hope in a 
way he makes it," he thought. Near 
evening he reached the top. It was a 
small table-like mound of snow. He 
climbed onto it and looked at the 
earth spread before him. 

Slowly he turned completely around. 
In all directions the earth reached into 
distant purple. Trees grew, rivers 
flowed, birds sang. 

In the west the sun sank quietly. 
The earth was preparing for rest. They 
had arrived, "I'm sorry, Sam," he 
said, "I'm sorry." 



WOLFE 

continued jrom page 23 

ton Basso. Hamilton was up there at 

Pisgah Park. 

Well, Scott was pale but he was 
looking fine. He brought out a quart 
bottle of either Gilbey's or Gordon's 
dry gin, and he said, "Tom, I want 
you and Fred to have a drink." 

Well, they didn't. I know that Tom 
and I were the only ones drinking. I 
know that a little later on, in the New 
York Times, some writers claimed that 
they came, and that Scott said we had 
drunk it all. That Scott was drunk, too. 
We had quite a little crossfire about 
that. 

But we opened the bottle, and I 
think Tom and I drank about a third 
of it. We talked with Scott for a couple 
of hours. One particular thing was 
Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the 
W itid, which had been out only a few 
months. I said, "Scott, have you read 
Mrs. Mitchell's Gone With the Wind?" 
He said, "Yes, Fred, I have. I read it 
in about two hours and a half. I didn't 
find but about two good paragraphs in 
it." 

I said, "Well maybe you didn't, but 
I wish to God that you or Tom could 
write one that would sweep the country 
like her book is doing." And he said, 
"Tom, have you read it?" and he is 
quoted by someone else who came in 
as saying, "No, it's too damn big." And 
you know, Tom wrote big himself. 

Now Tom said. "Scott, I've got a 
copy of it in my suitcase. I haven't 
gotten to it, but I'm going to read it 
right away." 

When we left, he handed it to me, 
and said, "Fred, I'm going to present 
this one to you." So I carried it with 
me. 

And we went up into Pisgah Forest, 
and spent about two hours with Hamil- 
ton Basso. We had a couple of little 
drinks out of it and it was down to 
a third. And, much to my dislike and 
consternation, Tom said, "Well, Ham, 
we're going to leave this one with you." 
Well, I didn't like that, because I 
wanted to take it with me. But that's 
where we left it. 



now 
Pepsi 

for those who 
think young 




Terry 
Bottling Co. 

ANDERSON, S. C. 



undar appointment of Pepsi Cola Co.' 
New York 



TOMORROW 

Continued from page 17 

The launch swerved sharply to the 
left, poised precariously on its side, 
then flopped down on the water as we 
shot across the rapids and turned up 
toward the lodge. The current was 
fast, and it was like riding on a wash- 
hoard. The trees along the bank hung 
wet with rain. Turning the curve of the 
river, I could see two groups of natives 
on each side of the river in front of 
the lodge. Both hanks were lined with 
dug-out canoas from the huts along 
the river and the colony. Mario cut 
the motor, and we scraped to a stop 
against the hank. "We were crossing 
from here to the other side when the 
canoa turned over. I was in the front 
and jumped out on the hank, hut Del- 
gado went in there, where it's knee 
deep. I grabbed my machete, but he 
couldn't reach it. The gravel gave way 
beneath his feet, and he just started 
walking back. He never said a word: 
he didn't . . ." Roman broke ofT in a 
sob. 

"Where did he go down?" 

"Right there." A rock plunked into 
the water indicating the spot. Manfred. 
Mario, and I went to the other bank in 
the launch and made a hand chain 
with some of the native boys. The cur- 
rent was too swift to hold hands. The 
current swept me to the other bank. I 
felt along the steep bank by treading 
water and stepping on rocks. I dived 
under the water, but it was black be- 
fore I could reacli bottom. The water 
lapped against the sides of the bank and 
made gurgling, belching noises as it 
slapped into the holes of the rock clifT. 

Up the river I could hear Mario 
yelling. "Diego!" I had drifted some 
distance, but was still close enough for 
him to see my waving arms. 

The launch pulled along side me. I 
climbed in and huddled under the bow 
for protection from the stinging rain 
and cold wind. 

"Any luck?" 

■'No. nothing. We're calling it off 
till tomorrow; it's no use taking 
chances in this weather." 

Three days later Delgado's body 
came to the top about a mile below (he 
lodge. A native boy poled his canoa 
down the river at sunset with Delgado 
tied under the arms to the bow, and 
stopped on the opposite bank. I 
stood on the overhanging bank and 
looked at Delgado lying swollen, face 
down in his river. The police inspec- 
tor came up from the colony and made 
his report, then my friend was gone. 



MARTIN'S 

DRUG 

STORE 




DISTRIBUTORS OF THK 
CLEMSON RING 



CHRONICLE 



33 



missile gap, arms race, mega-deaths, fall out, overkill, cold war, arms r 



BY DAVE HENRY 

I /uring the last few decades, politicians and militicians have coined a vast conglomeration of semantic encroachments 
on the King's English. These coinages are so outlandish that even a patient lexicographer would be driven to drink if 
he attempted to enter them in his dictionary. 

These barbarous attackers of proper English have invented words that have no meaning, defined these words with 
definitions that are ambiguous, and then used words in the definitions that they haven't as yet gotten around to coin- 
ing. Out of this colossal hodgepodge of chaos, the versatile CHRONICLE research staff (of one) has endeavored to 
define a few of the more elementary terms as a special service to our readers. 

Our National Defense program has given birth to two rather interesting examples of semantic liberties, "Pen- 
tagon Jargon," and "McNamara-ease." The latter is somewhat akin to the Brooklyn variety but much less intelligible, 
and it depends more for its uniqueness on the coinage than on the mispronuncination of words. The former is a language 
unto itself. 

First we'll consider the RACE TO THE MOON, sometimes referred to as the MOON RACE. The participants 
in this contest are the NAUT family. ASTRO and COSMO. They ride around in MERCURY CAPSULES which are con- 
siderably swifter than a '49 Ford equipped with checker pillows, mud flaps, coon tail, and high speed hub caps. The 
MERC's are pitted against the NlK's; SPUT, MUT and MOON. Of course, since this is a race, sooner or later, one or 
the other is bound to get ahead, and this creates a MISSLE GAP. which has similar consequences as Chaucer's gap- 
toothed maiden — anyway, everybody gets real emotional. MISSLE GAP is also used to describe the distance between 
the missiles at Cape Kennedy. 

Another interesting race to watch is the ARMS RACE, which contrary to public opinion, is not similar to a 
foot race. Before the ARMS RACE begins, however, all the ground and air rules are discussed at a SUMMIT MEET- 
ING. The race is concerned with things like MEGADEATHS, MASSIVE RETALIATIONS, and FALLOUTS. To 
take these terms up in the order mentioned; when the bad guys decide they have a favorable lead, the race begins. It 
starts with the inconspicuous pushing of a button. The good guys then retaliate by saying, "A-OK . . .4, 3, 2, L" The 
immediate result is MEGA-DEATHS (lots of people are atomized), then OVERKILLS (people who are already dead are 
killed again, this time for keeps). The combined result of mega-deaths and overkills is called MASSIVE RETALIA- 
TION. And the end result of massive retaliation is called FALLOUT (a more rigorous definition of this term will 
be deleted since there wouldn't be anybody left to experience this). 

Of course some protective measures have been taken to attempt to prevent the running of this race. For instance 
two new types of war have been invented: LIMITED and COLD. A LIMITED war means the two belligerents find 
a neutral arena and fight like hell until the contest becomes too expensive. Then everybody meets at the summit just 
like before the arms race began. COLD war is an irregular affair where one side ships wheat and vodka to the other 
side. (Wouldn't it be ironic if someone got tight on the vodka and pushed the button that started the arms race?) 

Understanding militarisms is mere child's play when compared to the task of making sense out of political idiotisms. 
The translation of the following passage is left as an exercise for the student of politics and for anybody else who's 
foolish enough to try. 

Left is right, and right is left. Fair is foul, and foul is fair. And fowl is chicken. Sure it is. Barry is right (but 
the liberals claim he's wrong) except with respect to Birchers, then he's left. And Rocky's party is right, but he is left 
and so was his first wife. It's fair that Negroes pay taxes; it's foul that the Supreme Court lets them go to white 
schools. It's foul that the United States makes a profit off the canal; it's fair that we pour millions into the Panamian 
economy. Left is fair, and right is foul. Fair is right, and foul is left. And on, and on, and on. 

Thusly we have disposed of most of the more elemental terms. And (hie) we'll regress into a few (hie) of the 
more com-plex (hie) termo . . . er . . . ter mon ol o . . . er . . . (hie) termonologies (there, hie). But first (hie) — 
Will ya please pass the gin! 



34 





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CHRONICLE 



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CHRONICLE 



39 



GOT 



DIME? 




TAKE 
IT 
TO 

HARPER'S 
5 & 10 

CIEMSON & SENECA 



PATTER 

ciintinued jrom page 18 

Twain's book Life on the Mississippi 
originally appeared in the "Atlantic" 
in serial form. 

The last part of the nineteenth cen- 
tury was a period of revolutionary 
change in America for industrialization 
was being introduced into all corners 
of the country. Americans traveled fur- 
ther and more frequently than ever 
before. They began to participate in 
many leisure time activities and took 
more interest in political and sociologi- 
cal problems. Generally speaking, 
Americans were becoming acutely 
aware of the world around them. The 
"Atlantic", however, continued its gen- 
teel way, seemingly afraid to launch 
itself into the mainstream of American 
life. Consequently circulation fell un- 
til it reached an all time low in 1897 
of seven thousand. 

The tide turned, however, when the 
magazine began to delve into the so- 
ciological and political problems of the 
day during the editorships of Walter 
H. Page and Bliss Perry I these two 
men headed the magazine from 1898 
to 1909). This policy of coming to 
grips with every facet of life was car- 
ried forward and greatly extended by 
Ellery Sedgewick and by the current 
editor — Edward Weeks. 



Today the "Atlantic" is still publish- 
ing essays, short stories, and poetry by 
good American authors. For example, 
in the February, 1964 issue, the "At- 
lantic" had three pages of poetry by 
several young poets as well as several 
other poems that were used as fillers. 
This same issue also carried short 
stories by Allan Seager and Mauro 
Senesi and an excerpt from a forth- 
coming book by Alan Moorehead. The 
magazine also carries reports and ar- 
ticles on vital problems and subjects 
of our time. For instance, in the De- 
cember, 1963, issue, "Atlantic" ran a 
forty-three page feature on Berlin. The 
March issue of this year carried a 
sixty-five page supplement on Mexico. 

A resolve that Ellery Sedgewick once 
made for the "Atlantic" is a very good 
description of what this magazine is 
today: ". . . resolved that the 'Atlantic' 
should face the whole of life, its rid- 
dles, its adventures; the critical ques- 
tions of the day, the problems of the 
human heart; and that no subject 
should be taboo if it were discussed 
with urbanity." 

The "Atlantic" is today an Ameri- 
can institution because it has captured 
and contained those two most import- 
ant intangibles that are the basis of 
our 'American philosophy,' and these 
are individuality and material success. 
—BUDDY BRYAN. 




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Here it is 

the 

Welcome Back to 

Good Old Clemsonj 

Issue 



i^^. 



t 



September 1964 



d,i>& 



25e 



Named the "Best College Variety Magazine in the 
Whole World" by an independent research facility. 




SYMBOL OF STRENGTH 

^Ulej onw L^eekLm^ C^. 





BILL SMITH 

654-4726 

Auburn '62 



PAUL GELAND 
Clemson '64 




>vr 'Xoflege Graduate Plan," especially tailored for the college 
man, offers the protection which every man needs and will need even 
more after graduation. The plan offers this protection in such a way 
as to create cash equities which can be used for future emergencies, in- 
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WELL here we go again ready to 
begin another year, and what better 
way to begin than with another is- 
sue of the award winning CHRON- 
ICLE. You old timers who have fol- 
lowed the progress of the magazine 
over the last few years will notice a 
few changes, but not many. In the 
last three years the CHRONICLE has 
been selected best magazine in the 
state three times and last year won 
the coveted "All American" award, 
one of two awarded in our class on 
the national level. We really don't 
think we should change a great 
deal. The CHRONICLE is your maga- 
zine, paid for by your student ac- 
tivities fee; so if there's something 
you don't like, we would like to 
know about it. 

In this issue Larry Joe Payne again 
provides us with lead fiction. His 
"Spero Meliora" is sure to entertain 
you as well as test your Latin. Also 
in the fiction department, you'll find 
"The Dream," o short story by Tom 
Salmons, and a tongue-in-cheek 
short play by a newcomer to the 
CHRONICLE, Frank Pearce. You'll 
also find Frank's work in evidence 
on the poetry page. 

Lecherous old Dave Henry, 
CHRONICLE Feature Editor, has com- 
piled three, (count 'em) three girlie 
iFeatures. There's a guide to South 
Carolina's Girls Schools, a pictorial 
on some of the more attractive local 
girls, and for the already homesick 
yankees (homesick southerners may 
look too) our Gentlemen's Choice is, 
for the first time, from the north 
country. Flatt and Scruggs round out 
the feature section with three pages 
that are certain to please the blue- 
grass music fans. David Milling's 
book review encompasses a dis- 
cussion of the theater of the absurd 
OS well OS clever poetic summaries 
of each of Ferlinghetti's seven new 
plays. 

Then there's Dirty Durwood, up to 
his usual mischief, with his comic 
strip and "The Other Side of Poetry," 
both of which are guaranteed to 
make you laugh, cry, or at least 
get mad. 'Add an editorial, which 
we hope you'll read, and you have 
the September CHRONICLE. 



CL^^^t^i^ 




CHRONICLE WANTS YOU 



YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF 17 AND 87 
we're offering you the chance of a life time. A chance to be rich and 
famous and all that. An independent research facility reports that 
66.6% of old CHRONICLE editors drive sports cars (the other one drives 
a candy truck). If you type, write, draw, take pictures, play a forty- 
seven string zither or anything like that, come by our executive office 
located on the West side, ground level, of the Geology Building. We 
almost guarantee you'll be rich and famous. 



PATTER 



ASHLEY PAULK 



CONNING THE PROFESSOR 

"Grades are your means of 
getting into graduate school; your 
means of keeping your parents 
happy; your means of avoiding the 
army," says a student publication of 
the University of California at Berke- 
ley. But, it also adds with great can- 
dor and wit another much more ef- 
fectual statement: "Do not give the 
professor reason to suppose that 
your interest is in the grade. You 
must always act like an interested 
intellectual, no matter what your 
motive may be." 

In this statement, one may find 
the true core of a college education 
in the U. S. although it does contrast 
sharply with the impressions of 
many college presidents throughout 
the nation. Though this statement 
does absolutely nothing but sum up 
the art of conning the college prof 
for higher grades, it succeeds in 
bringing to light a sick art that 
grows more feverish each year as 
more collegians compete for more 
degrees at ever more crowded cam- 
puses. In fact, the art has become 
so advanced that even school- 
children are advised by their how-to- 
study manuals to "Study Your 
Teacher" and advise: "You have to 
work with people all your life; start 
making a science of it." 

And a science it is, for gone are 
the days when a sweet young thing 
could sigh, "Ah'll do anything to 
get a good grade" and come up 
with nothing short of an A every 
time. But, in our day and age, the 
art of conning for grades has be- 
come much more discreet and the 
short-skirt bit is quite likely to be 
quite useless for most girls. Quite 
symbolic of the attitude of pro- 
fessors toward this type of "conn- 
ing" is found in the fact that many 
meet it with such terse statements as 
"try studying" or with such drastic 
actions as a Michigan State pro- 



fessor took last fall by ordering all 
girls to sit to the rear of the room 
to eliminate ALL temptation for the 
old short-skirt conning for grades. 

Still, the con man does not begin 
to give up for there is most certainly 
more than one way to the heart of a 
professor and his GRADE BOOK. 
One of the most effective methods 
used by the modern con artist is 
that of the impersonation of the 
passionate learner. No matter how 
hard he may try, every professor has 
at least one weakness which is com- 
mon to all in his profession; his con- 
stant yearning for the beaming face 
of a passionate learner in the sea of 
yawning faces to which he grows 
so accustomed. The skillful con man 
will move in fast on the day of the 
first lecture and endear his name to 
the heart of the professor. After that, 
says a Princeton honor student who 
must be quite skilled in the art of 
conning grades, one need only "sit 
in the first two rows of the lecture 
room and maintain continuous eye 
contact with the lecturer. Make him 
glad he's looking at you. Give him 
that receptive gaze, which IMPLIES 
amazement at his genius and quiet 
excitement at the information being 
transmitted." 

The great degree of advancement 
that the con artists have made in the 
■past few years is illustrated in the 
finding that the University of Michi- 
gan, fraternity houses are not only 
stocked with the ever-present exams 
but also with a new form of grade- 
aider known as "teacher psych-outs" 
— folders compiled by A-students on 
the likes and dislikes of a particular 
professor. Information of this type 
allows the con man to lug around 
the prof's favorite magazine or to 
read up on and discuss his favorite 
books. If this fails, says a recent 
Michigan graduate, there is always 
the "welfare approach" of pretend- 

continued on page 31 



Cfjrtnitk 



EDITORIAL 



FRESHMEN ONLY: 

As a Clemson freshman you have 
hod many decisions to make.- what 
to major in, what courses to take, 
which girl to ask to Rat Hop, and 
what to do with that precious 
leisure time you have. Let us first 
agree that our primary purpose at 
Clemson is academic, the pursuit of 
learning, BUT to coin a trite phrase, 
"All work and no play will soon 
change old Joe College into a were- 
wolf." Everyone will agree that 
leisure time is a must and, if prop- 
erly planned, can supplement as 
well as provide relief from the "well 
rounded education." 

The University annually sponsors 
a lecture and concert series. For only 
the price of one night's bull-session 
you can hear noted speakers dis- 
cuss their field, or listen to one of the 
many music concerts. Various de- 
partments, schools, and students 
sponsor other groups of a more re- 
stricted nature. For example, the 
Modern Language Club and the 
School of Architecture sponsor a film 
series. A film membership in either 
is very reasonable and entitles the 
member to see four or five excellent 
movies per semester. The Calhoun 
Literary Society encourages creative 
writing and sponsors a book-reading 
program among its members. The 
Calhoun Forensic Society, a newly 
organized Clemson group, is now 
debating with much success. The 
Clemson Little Theater and a pro- 
posed student drama group provide 
a home for thespians. For the tech- 
nically inclined, groups like the Nu- 
tonian Society, schedule lectures in 
the fields of physics, mathematics, 
and engineering. 

If you are interested in some phys- 
ical diversion and find yourself too 
small for football and too impatient 
to wait for a tennis court, Clemson 
is adding to its minor sports pro- 
gram every year. The newly or- 
ganized polo team hopes to compete 
for the first time this year as does 
the soccer team. The fencing team 
will begin its fourth season this year, 
and the rifle team which is relatively 
new at Clemson is already na- 
tionally ranked. 

Of course I haven't mentioned all 
of the extracurricular activities 
available. There are many more, and 
Clemson is growing with leaps and 
bounds. It will be to your advantage, 
and Clemson's, if you decide to af- 
filiate yourself with one of these 
groups, be it fencing, debate, or a 
general protest march. 

F.D.D. 



' ' I- 



' n . ■ \ 



I Aluj/ /Vol 





BOLTON'S 



Highway 123 Clemson 




LITTERS 




Dear Si 

Your magazine is a disgrace to 
South Carolina. Me and my friends 
here at Middle Weslayon College lo- 
cated at Middle, South Carolina, (in 
case you have not heard of our 
fine school.) Not only are the jokes 
of the lowest denominator but the 
pictures you print of fine young girls 
of the sovereign state of South Caro- 
lina are a disgrace. Really a dis- 
race. And the stories you print. 
They are a disgrace. And the car- 
toons. They are a disgrace. And the 
poems. They are a disgrace. Like I 
said before. Your magaizne is a dis- 
grace. And I shovi/ it to all my friends 
here. They read it and they say it is 
\ a disgrace. It is a disgrace. 

Hilda Sthump 

Middle Weslayon College 

Middle South Carolina 

Dear Sir: 

was just wondering why your 
magazine has none of the fine and 
out standinging writing of John 
Cercan. He is a very, very fine young 
writer. His English porfessors in col- 
ege all said he had talent. Yes it 
was mighty disappointing to find 
that your magazine has none of the 
fine writings of John Cercan. Every- 
body I have talked to has asked, 
"When is John Cercan going to be 
published." Yes it is mighty sad. 

Sincerely, 
John Cercan 
Outer Clemson 



DAIL DIXON 

editur 

MARK MILLBOURN 

managing editor 

LYDIA THREAT! 

business manager 

DAVE HENRY 

feulure editor 

GEOFF GROAT 

photography editor 

ROB BRYAN 

art director 



JOHN McCARTER 

fiction editor 



ASHLEY PAULK 

copy editor 



DURWARD STINSON 

humor editor 



RAYMOND AYRES 
TED KING 

advertising rnanagrrs 



HARRY TOWNSEND 

{iromiitKins 



ALPHA PHI OMEGA 

circulation 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Mike Medlock^editor emeritus 

Bill Anderson III 

Harold Folk 

Donny Golightly 

Jerry Johnson 

Steve King 

Eric Lipnack 

Jim McConnell 

Robert Oliver III 

'Larry Joe Payne 

Frank Pearce 

Gene Rudisil 

Hurry Suber 

and Fred Busch 



DR. MARK STEADMAN 

lu<ult) adiisor 



Chronicle 



SEPTEMBER 1964 



VOL. V, NO. 1 



WHAT'S INSIDE THE CHRONICLE 







FICTION 


Larry Joe Payne 


10 


Spero Meliora 


Tom Salmons 


18 


The Dream 


Frank Pearce 


24 


What's Going on Here 
FEATURES 




7 


Flatt and Scruggs 


Dave Henry 


13 


Where to Find 'Em 




15 


Gentlemen's Choice 




21 


Clemson Girls 
HUMOR 




20 


The Other Side of Poetry 


Durivard Stinson 


25 
1 


Cartoon 
REGULAR STUFF 

Hello 


Ashley Paiilk 


2 


Patter 




3 


Editorial 




4 


Letters 


David Milling 


6 


Book Review 


Frank Pearce 


19 


Poetry 



Cbronitlt 






















OUR COVER: I 


tak( 


sallk 


nds 


of stuff 


to fill 


up a red "0 


'. 




Fiction, poetry 


features. 


girls 


jokes, 


and 


maybe even 


a 


T , 


little 


hot air. 


Our 


cover 


artist gives his 


impression 


of 


1 


how 


this happens. 















The CHRONICLE Is an official publication of Clemson University published about three times a year in Septem- 
ber, December, and April. Address all correspondence to the CHRONICLE, Box 2186, Clemson, South Carolina. 
Student subscriptions are paid for through student activities fees. Other subscription rates: U.S. and 
possessions SI. 00 per year; Canada and Pan American Union Countries S2.00; other foreign countries S3.00. 
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CJjrinicIe 



BOOK REVIEW 

BY DAVID MILLING 



UNFAIR ARGUMENTS WITH EXISTENCE 



BY LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI 



Lawrence Ferlinghetti was born in 
Yonkers, New York in 1919. He re- 
ceived an A.B. degree fronn the 
University of North Carolina and an 
M.A. from Columbia University. After 
Navy service in World War II, he 
"emptied wastebaskets at Time" for 
a while and then lived in Paris 
(1947-1951) where he received a 
Doctorat de I'Universite from the Sor- 
bonne. On his return to the United 
States he went to San Francisco 
where he and Peter D. Martin 
founded the first all-paperbound 
bookstore in the country, City Lights. 
Under its imprint, Ferlinghetti began 
publishing the Pocket Poets Series 
which includes work by William Car- 
los Williams, Allen Ginsberg, Ken- 
neth Patchen, Kenneth Rexroth, De- 
nise Levertov, Gregory Corso, as well 
as his own collection of poems en- 
titled Pictures of the Gone World. 

EXISTENTALISM IN THE THEATER 
UNFAIR ARGUMENTS WITH 
EXISTENCE by Lawrence Ferlinghetti 

"Johnny Nolen has a patch on 
his ass . . ." 

It is with such rollicking una- 
bashed poetry (from which the 
above was extracted) that we 
usually associate the name of 
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, or with the 
probing sensitivity of some of his 
less frivolous lines. His novel. Her, 
is an intriguing study in impression- 
istic writing. Here he uses a nar- 
rative method by which one enters 
more and more deeply into the 
hero's consciousness. Some (his pub- 
lishers) have suggested that this 
style may prove as important as 
Joyce's interior monologue. The 
closest parallel here, however, seems 
to be his demand placed on the 
reader for interpretation. 

Being widely read, Mr. Ferlinghetti 
has given his own dimension to 
eclectic writing. It is almost im- 
possible to read any portion of his 
works without finding some familiar 
phrase or reference he has ex- 
tracted from boundless sources and 
employed with new meaning in the 
careful art of his lines. Occasionally 
he indulges in sheer name-dropping. 

Why the author of such popular 
poetry (A Coney Island of the Mind 
has sold 35,000 copies since its pub- 
lication in 1958) would turn to the 
media of the theater is anybody's 



guess; but perhaps the shift repre- 
sents Mr. Ferlinghetti's own evalua- 
tion of his previous work. He is, 
however, making no bid for great- 
ness with his first offering in this 
genre. At present his plays are little 
more than experiments (one has 
been produced) in a "new" theater, 
and to quote the author, " — with 
still a long way to go." 

Lawrence Ferlinghetti is by no 
means the first writer to choose the 
theater as a means of extending his 
self-expression. In fact, the contro- 
versial French philosopher, Jean-Paul 
Sartre, is sometimes given credit for 
prompting a whole new theater with 
his existentialist melodramas. Sartre 
is occupied with a philosophy that is 
immediately involved in the peculiar 
confusions that beset our generation 
in all aspects of its civilization. The 
chief effort of his work is to face the 
implications for personal action in 
a universe without purpose. He is 
interpreted as saying that, "Man can 
assume his acts and his life while 
fully aware of the world's ab- 
surdity." And what is this new the- 
ater? Why, Theater of the Absurd, 
of course. 

Since Satre, practically any play- 
wright who castigates man and his 
peculiar institutions has been classi- 
fied as belonging to a new theater. 
And if he succeeds in portraying 
man as quite a doom-laden and de- 
pressing character, he may be con- 
sidered a candidate for the Theater 
of the Absurd. But usually not until 
the playwright has mastered a truly 
negative view of life, a defeatist 
celebration of emptiness and de- 
spair, is he classified among the 
more outstanding cynics — Beckett, 
Genet, lonesco, Pinter, and Simpson 
to name a few. (Ironically, Sartre 
himself is omitted from the list be- 
cause he examines absurdity with 
"hope.") More interesting is how 
these plays convey the absurdity of 
our existence. According to Martin 
Esslin, author of Theater of the Ab- 
surd, "Only plays which combine 
anti-literary devaluation and con- 
fusion of language seem to belong." 

The languages of gesture and 
symbol have always been the means 
by which theater reached its audi- 
ence. To negate them or obscure 
them in an attempt to show futility 
or impossibility of communication is 



to depict chaos with further chaos. 
Many of the plays show man throw- 
ing up his hands and babbling cas- 
cades of inverted cliches. The result 
has been that some have declared a 
new poetry in the theater by the 
non sequiturs of Beckett and the 
wordfalls of lonesco. At the same 
time, others have charged another 
art fraud in the ambiguities and 
repetitions of Samuel Beckett's Wait- 
ing for Godot and linguistic gabble 
in Eugene lonesco's The Bald So- 
prano — comparable to abstract 
painting. Defenders agree, but don't 
call it a fraud, saying that intel- 
lectual midgets can scarcely be ex- 
pected to understand anything so 
sophisticated! 

Of the playwrights who attack 
man, his illusions, cliches, and worn 
out values of our society, there are 
many who prefer not to be classified 
among the "Absurdists." Such other 
terms as Avant Garde and Experi- 
mental Theater, or just plain New 
Theater have been substituted. These 
terms apply to a theater that allows 
more "hope" for all mankind. The 
message in general is that all social 
ills must be faced, not effaced or de- 
faced, all is not necessarily in vain, 
and that man has the ability to over- 
come disasters, both natural and of 
his own making. 

The seven plays are short varia- 
tions on similar themes and in com- 
binations of two or three, they might 
comprise an evening's intellectual 
gamble. What a joy to furrow our 
brows and contemplate the curious 
symbols, imagery, and third mean- 
ings independent of what the plays 
may separately say! (Mr. Ferlinghetti 
may well contemplate us at this 
point.) In his sparce notes on the 
plays, we are told that they move 
progressively from the representa- 
tional toward a purely non-objective 
theater. In order, they bear these 
titles: 

The Soldiers of No Country 
Three Thousand Red Ants 
The Alligation 
The Victims of Amnesia 
Motherlode 
The Customs Collector in Baggy 

Pants 
The Nose of Sisyphus 

If I may be allowed the rambling 
freedom of thought and punctuation 
continued on page 30 




Guitar pickin' Lester Flatt and banjo pluckin' Earl Scruggs introduced Clemson University to some real 
foot-'stompin', finger-snappin', ole fashion folk music. 

In sharp contrast to the commercialized "folk" music currently in vogue, the Blue Grass music played by 
Flatt and Scruggs is the authentic folk music of this country. Ever since the "folksmanship" groups began 
paying more money to Uncle Sam than they pocketed, it has been as rare as a forty-seven string zither 
player (Frab Lambkin of Pizzicato, Tennessee) to find a group that knows the difference between com- 
mercial folk and authentic folk music. And when it comes to authentic folk music, Flatt and Scruggs, 
backed by the Foggy Mountain Boys, are rated among the finest anywhere. 

Admittedly, not a few sophisticated collegiates went to the concert with cynical expectations — but the 
odds are that these same people left that afternoon, if not rabid proponents of Bluegrass music, at least 
with some appreciation of the quality of the performance that they had just witnessed. 



PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOFF GROAT 





CHRONICLE 




". . . Blessed is he that readeth, 
and they that hear the words of this 
prophecy, and keep those things 
which ore written therein: for the 
time is at hand . . ." Revelation 

"O temporal O mores! I tell you, 
John, this world shall not go on this 
way. It's ridiculous, the mockery man 
has made of the human race. All 
men are rogues, and I tell you it 
shall one day cease. This mockery 
cannot permanently exist. By God, 
non libet." 

"Odi profanum vulgar. You are 
old, Christo. I too am old, yet I 
know that I don't fear death; so 
let us be joyful and enjoy this life. 
Look at the youth around you, 
around all of us. It's not only the 



youth, it's the whole defiant modern 
race. Look at the spirit they have. 
Be sensible, Christo. Dei gratia." 

"Sensible! Sensible indeed. I am 
sensible. I do not want man to en- 
joy life at my expense. But I am 
old. No, don't apologize. I am very 
old, older than all who have come 
before me and older than all who 
shall come after me. That's really 
an absurdity. Ha, the way I'm feel- 
ing now I doubt that there shall 
ever be anyone after today. The 
human race has doomed itself to 
hell, I tell you. And the cynical thing 
about it is that they are enjoying 
every damned minute of it. Look 
at the swine!" 

"Christo, you are an intelligent 



man. You are strong yet, but your 
face shows signs of worry. Your 
voice, once as powerful as a thou- 
sand trumpets, is no longer the 
same. You do not sparkle, and 
there's not the compassion in you 
that was once your soul of existence. 
Only your white hair and beard 
sparkle now. You are intelligent, but 
a worrier. There's nothing quite as 
bad as an intelligent worrier. Why 
should you worry about the human 
race. Have you not worried long 
enough? Why should you give a 
damn about the vulgar vultures? 
Have not they fed off you long 
enough? Have they not attached 
themselves to you as leeches to a 
dead carcass? Leeches who are al- 




SPERO 
MELIORA 

By 

Larry Joe Payne 



Copyright 1964 by 
Larry Joe Payne 



ways searching for something to at- 
tach themselves to, only to leave you 
when there is a fatter carcass at 
hand? 

"Christo, I have been faithful to 
you. I have served you well. I am 
destined to serve you, but let us 
forget the human race and enjoy 
ourselves. Let us drink the wine and 
forget the leeches." 

"Yes, it would be easy to forget 
the matter, but I cannot. It's really 
impossible to forget the human race, 
leeches they may be. Oh, it would 
be quite easy to forget them, per- 
haps destroy them all and create a 
new race. Oh, not an intelligent race, 
mind you. That was one of the mis- 
takes I made the last time." 



"You look serious, Christo. But do 
I not perceive a smile on your tired 
old glorious face?" 

"I smile ironically." 

"One of the mistakes? What was 
the other one?" 

"Yes, one of the mistakes. The 
other I suppose was the creation of 
woman. I tell you, that was a blun- 
der. Only a sentimental old fool 
would have done it. I should have 
known better than to tempt man 
with a beautiful creature such as 
woman. Eternal damnation was the 
result." 

"Yes, now that you mention it, 
you did make a sorry mess out of it 
with woman. But was there any 
continued on paee 12 



SPERO MELIORA 

continued from page 11 
other way? Perhaps you could have 
left the savagery out of man." 

"No, to have left the savagery out 
of man would have meant killing 
man before he was created. Only the 
savages can survive. Perhaps if I 
had created a sexless race it would 
have been better. Look at the sur- 
roundings we are in right now. 
Sickening, I tell you. Sickening!" 

"It is sickening to you and me, 
but look how these modern men and 
women enjoy it. This is a new gen- 
eration, Christo. The new, rebellious 
generation." 

"And the damned generation too. 
No, John, this generation is like 
every other gluttonous generation. 
Every time a new evil generation has 
made itself more sinister, more vul- 
gar, more bastardly, you have called 
it a new rebellious generation. I tell 
you, as long as man continues to 
live, he will only continue to increase 
his lustful and lecherous ways. In- 
dividualism, they call it. It's a farce, 
that's what it is." 

"Where do you suppose man 
stumbled and fell?" questioned 
John. 

"Stumbled and fell?" 

"You laugh again, Christo." 

"Stumbled and fell. By God, he 
not only stumbled and fell, but the 
delirious idiot got up and began 
running. Running, I tell you, and he's 
been running ever since. The pious 
fraud doesn't know where he's run- 
ning to, but he's too scared of his 
own shadow to slow down. I tell 
you, he's got to be stopped. 
Stopped!" 

"You are excited, Christo. Your 
face shows it. If only you knew how 
unbecoming your fiery-red face ap- 
pears." 

The patrons, mostly college stu- 
dents, dressed in the appropriate 
village attire of beards, long, un- 
groomed hair, sloppy sweat-shirts, 
tight pants, and ragged tenni- 
pumps, looked at this strange old 
man with a note of contempt and 
indifference. "How dare that old 
bastard to come in here and gawk 
at us. The son-of-a-bitch is probably 
one of those damned do-gooders 
from up at the mission," remarked a 
ragged young man to his unat- 
tentive mistress. 

"Please control yourself, Christo. 
You know it is bad for you," begged 
John. 

"Perhaps you are right, but I tell 
you man has got to stop this crazy 
rush he's in. He's becoming too in- 
telligent and too indifferent. He's 
becoming lazy. His sentimentality is 



becoming indifferent to all feelings 
for his fellow man. He's becoming a 
lazy heathen intellect." 

"Laborare est orare," said John. 

"To labor is to pray, work is wor- 
ship. Yes, you're right, and that's 
why none of them are engaged in 
work," replied Christo. "Labor omnia 
vincit," he continued. "Man needs 
less intelligence and more physical 
labor. No, not exactly labor in the 
strict physical sense, but he needs 
less automation. I tell you the 
damned monster machines have 
turned man's feelings to stone. He 
has grown to treat his fellow men as 
if they too were machines. There's 
no real love-thy-neighbor in the soul. 
Too much idle time for thinking of 
materialistic value. Too much time 
to think of sin." 

"Sin? " questioned John. 

"Yes, sin. I suppose I should have 
made man free from sin, but if I 
had done that, then there would 
have been no need for me." 

"You're right . . ." 

"You see, John, I care about man 
only because I have to feel needed. 
It makes an old man sad to feel that 
he is no longer needed. What per- 
plexes me most in that modern man 
is striving ahead without me. He's 
really doing a first class job of get- 
ting along without my services." 

"Without your services?" ques- 
tioned John. "That's quite incorrect, 
I would think." 

'You mean magna est Veritas, et 
prevalebit?" questioned Christo. 

"Precisely. Of course love is the 
only truth." 

"Not by human low. By human 
law it is false. Man has distorted 
love. He has sought it for lustful and 
selfish purposes. By my law love is 
the only truth, but by human law — 
no," said Christo. 

"Did I hear someone mention im- 
moral and selfish purposes?" ques- 
tioned Devlin, approaching the two 
saintly men. "Immoral and selfish 
purposes, just my type of meal, 
gentlemen." 

"Well, I'll be damned if it's not 
the devil himself," cried Christo 
looking sadly at his old friend and 
enemy. 

"Nosce te Ipsum," quipped Dev- 
lin as he laughed. 

"Know thyself. Indeed! Nemo me 
impune la cessit, raged Christo ris- 
ing from his chair and shaking his 
fist at Devlin. 

"No one assails you with im- 
punity except man," replied Devlin, 
as he pulled a chair up to the table 
and sat down. "Simmer down, 
Christo. You're creating a scene. 



Such a bad example you're setting 
for the young ones." 

"The young ones be damned to 
the mangy dogs," cried Christo, full 
of rage. 

The young people in the cafe 
only ignored the white-haired old 
man. "Must be some damned luna- 
tic Classic," remarked one of the 
young men as he scorned the old 
man. 

"John, you should not let Christo 
become so excited. It's rather bad 
for him, but good for me. Helps my 
cause, you know," laughed Devlin. 

"I should think you are getting 
along quite nicely without my help- 
ing you," said Christo sarcastically. 

"You're quite right, Christo. Quite 
right. In fact, I had hoped to enlist 
your help in getting me out of a 
jam." 

"Help you out of a mess! Ha, you 
take me for the son of a jester?" 
shouted Christo. 

"Say what you may, but I do need 
your help. Of course, I should be 
willing to pay for it." 

"Me help you? You very jolly 
damned well know that it would be 
a cold day in hell before I would 
help you!" snapped Christo. 

"Why Christo, I'm rather disap- 
pointed in you. Such an over used 
metaphor coming from you. That's 
rot, and for you to say it is even 
worse." 

Christo blushed and silently 
wished he had not utted the meta- 
phor. "What kind of help are you 
so humbly seeking that you should 
put yourself at my mercy?" asked 
Christo. 

"No one said anything about 
'mercy'," replied Devlin. "You are 
forgetting that I am not man. In 
fact, the help that I am seeking has 
been caused by your noble per- 
sonage. However, I must say I never 
expected you to employ the rather 
uncouth tactics you have used. An 
embarrassing situation you have 
cast me in." 

"Embarrassing?" questioned 
Christo. 

"Yes, embarrassing, not to men- 
tion the way in which you did it. 
It's really unethical, and I should 
contact the Good-Evil Guild about 
it," replied Devlin. 

"Unethical, hell!" yelled Christo. 
"Anything I do is ethical. It's the foul 
human race that is unethical." 

"Precisely, but who do you think 
created the human race? You see, 
Christo, facilis est descenus averni. 
That is why I am in a tight spot. Not 
to mention the mockery those swine 
are making of me." 

continued on page 14 



WHERE TO FIND 'EM 



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South Carolina Girls Schools by Dave 

shadows of the Blue Ridge — a very 
few, which by the way, are treated 
in considerable detail elsewhere in 
this issue. 

But despair not. Clemson men 
have the world from which to find 
their amorous entanglements for the 
season. We "need no introduction" 
and are welcomed with puckered lips 
where ever we choose to wander. 
But for the sake of limiting this 
article to a reasonable length, we 
have endeavored to mention the con- 
centrations of college-type girls 
schools that have in the past been 
most frequented by Clemson men. 

Swinging on the northern leg of 
our mythical tour of the state, AN- 
DERSON COLLEGE, that hot-bed of 
intellectual stimulation in nearby An- 
derson is the first stop. 

To give you a brief idea of what 
to expect — "Anderson College be- 
lieves Christian education comes to 
pass as well trained Christian 
teachers instruct Christian students in 
an atmosphere of reverence for 
Christian truths." To that we add our 
humble AMEN. Continuing . . . "An- 
derson College for the last 50 years 
has been known as a small Christian 
college." AH HA! And there you 
have the crux of the matter. After 
excluding smoking, drinking, and 
dancing, the 300 girls there are not 
as tempting a target as would first 
appear. With all its drawbacks, its 
proximity is an obvious virtue and 
procuring a few phone numbers 
shouldn't tax anybody's ingenuity. 
There is also a nursing home in 
Anderson. And after digesting that 
dubious bit of information, you're 
on your own. 



I 



-t's September, and all roads lead 
to Clemson University. YEA! And 
here we are. 

Gone are those blissful, quizless 
days of summertime. Gone are those 
quickly «pent weekly paychecks. 
Gone are those beachy week-ends 
filled with liberal quantities of surf, 
sand, suds, and sex. Gone are those 
objects of your attentions, reflections, 
and possibly, affections. But where 
the hell did they go? 

Of course a few couldn't resist the 
temptation, and followed us into the 



Continuing through the world fa- 
mous "Bible Belt, " the next town of 
any consequence is Greenville which 
is the home of the two — count 'em, 
TWO, "universities," FURMAN and 
BOB JONES. Furman is being con- 
sidered with respect to its 600 coeds. 
As for Bob Jones, well, let it be suf- 
ficient to say that it probably isn't 
the most fruitful field of endeavor 
for the average Clemson man. Even 
for the abnormal one, finding some- 
thing datable there would be an un- 
precedented accomplishment. Di- 
gressing . . . 

Furman con justifiably claim the 
title of the most beautiful campus in 



Henry 

the state, with their dining hall being 
one of its most prominent show- 
places — especially when compared 
with the trough hall here at Bovine 
U. Being a bi-sexual institution, you 
can expect some competition from 
local horses, but nothing, 1 trust, 
you'll find insurmountable. 

Bob Jones claims to be the 
"World's Most Unusual University," 
and it is. The aim of the place is to 
combat all agnostic, pagan, and so- 
called scientific adulterations of the 
Gospel by giving special emphasis 
to the Bible, Christian education, 
missions, evangelism, pastoral train- 
ing, theology, and on and on and 
on. It is proud to be known as a 
Fundamentalist in its position. To 
reinforce its aims, teachings, and 
doctrines, it has an abundant sup- 
ply of rules and regulations. For 
those of you who enjoy a challenge, 
here it is. And then there's Green- 
ville's nursing home. 

Now, over the buckle of that in- 
famous belt, and another couple of 
miles down 1-85, and on to Gaffney, 
home of LIMESTONE COLLEGE. With 
about 500 head to pick from, this is 
usually a lucrative stopping place. 
The Student Union is a convenient 
meeting place, and the lodge at 
"Lake Limestone" (some people pre- 
fer to call it a rock quarry) has about 
all the potential a self-respecting 
Tiger, worthy of his tail, could ask 
for. 

Back to that irreplaceable 1-85 and 
another modest investment in pe- 
troleum products will bring you to 
an oasis of 725 girls, (pardon me) 
gentlewomen, of CONVERSE COL- 
LEGE in Spartanburg. Converse is o 
private (expensive) liberal arts insti- 
tution, and it's a literal nova of cul- 
tural activities, especially in the 
media of music. You'll find that it's 
not difficult to time, inadvertently or 
otherwise, your date to coincide with 
one of the multitudinous concerts, 
lectures, plays, ad infinitum — of 
course, to some Clemson men that 
may be a deterrent rather than an 
inducement; if such be the case, fol- 
low your nose (or whatever comes 
first) right down 1-85. 

And now for a brief moment of 

thanksgiving — being master of your 

car, thank "whatever gods may be," 

for that incomparable highway, 1-85. 

continued on page 14 



SPERO MELIORA 

continued from page 12 

"Precisely what in hell's name do 
you mean?" asked Christo mock- 
ingly. 

"You mean to sit there ex ca- 
thedra and ask that impertinent 
question?" 

"I damn well do!" 

"Very well then, I shall explain 
all. You see, Christo, I need your 
help because my cup runneth over. 
There's no more room for your blun- 
der in my house. You made a mis- 
take, a damn copulating blunder, 
with man and then turned your 
wrath upon me for it. You have 
made me keeper of your fool blun- 
der. You are quite selfish in that 
you have chosen to keep the best 
for yourself. Oh, I can't say that I 
envy you for keeping the best be- 
cause I really couldn't put up with 
those idiots; but yet I wish you 
would start a new campaign to win 
more souls. I tell you, those intelli- 
gent souls are driving me to pray. 
The mockery they moke of me, not 
to mention you. I keep telling them 
that I'll have no part of their slander- 
ous talk against a member of the 
profession of which we so humbly 
serve." 

"Speaking of rot," interrupted 
Christo, "You're not doing too badly 
yourself." 

"I'm serious. If you can't believe 
in man, then listen to me for 
heaven's sake; and I might add for 
hell's sake. Yes, you have sent so 
many of those intelligents down my 
way that I no longer have room for 
the good-old-fashioned sinner. Those 
are the ones who fear me, but these 
intellects. God!" 

"Yes?" answered Christo. 

"Figuratively speaking," blushed 
Devlin. 

"Excuse me, of course. Well, what 
do you propose 1 do? Do you have 
a suggestion? Believe me, I would 
like to help this damned modern 
race." 

"Exactly," answered Devlin. "You 
see, you have already admitted that 
they are all to be forced on me. 
Well, I really don't want them all. 
These rebellious fools tell me that 
you and I don't exist. They actually 
believe it, and I'm beginning to 
think they are right. I'm at my wit's 
end as to what to do. You must help 
me. Haven't I been cooperative in 
the past. Didn't I agree to take the 
bad ones after you cast me out of 
Heaven? But now, yes now, they 
have turned out to be too bad. It's 
this new breed. This damned genera- 
tion as you so aptly put it. 'Credat 



Judaeus Apella.' That's what the 
new breed tells me." 

"Yes, I should soy they do! I pity 
you, Devlin. I even feel sorry for 
you; but I cannot save you, although 
I suppose I can help you. But how?" 

"I'm glad you asked me that. I 
continued on page 32 



WHERE TO FIND 'EM 

continued from page 13 

Conveniently located on the other 
side of the state; easily accessible to 
anyone possessing a VW, unlimited 
bankroll, or charge card in someone 
else's name; situated in that trying 
metropolis of Rock Hill; is our sister 
school— WINTHROP COLLEGE, a real 
honest-to-goodness Shangri-la for 
men, with no less than 2236 fe- 
males. With such a lush field of op- 
portunity, it is only reasonable to 
assume that a series of formidable 
barriers have been erected. They 
have. The majority of these appear 
in the guise of campus cops — a 
group of simple, intolerant, non- 
thinkers the like of which is hard to 
find this side of Clemson's own 
"Deputy Dog." We strongly suggest 
that if you plan to date at Winthrop, 
arrange to meet her at Tillman Hall 
(either one) and head for anyplace. 
Charlotte isn't far. 

Resuming our journey, this time 
on its Eastern leg, we head for 
Heartsville (oops, Hartsville) and 
COKER COLLEGE, the smallest (but 
by no means the least) school con- 
sidered in this survey. (The least is 
where the most isn't, or at least 
where it doesn't exist superabun- 
dantly; that being the case, the most 
is where it is; and since Coker isn't 
the least, then it's reasonable to as- 
sume, that it isn't there.) Anway, 
Coker houses about 250 students 
and day-hops another 100, the sum- 
mation of which is very tempting. 
Coker girls wouldn't think of taking 
a drink (which of course implies that 
they drink without thinking, or pos- 
sibly that they don't think, or maybe 
they don't drink — in any case they 
obey the eleventh commandment. 
Thou shalt not get caught, she can 
get bounced for it. Florence and 
Darlington aren't far, and then 
there's Lake Robinson and a golf 
course. Try to avoid the campus 
parking lots, however; the admin- 
istration frowns on it. 

We'll resist going on to the sea 
(since only yankees seem to obtain 
sadistic glee from that type of thing) 



and move inland to Columbia, the 
home of the only other bona fide 
university in the state, and secondly, 
but not necessarily so, COLUMBIA 
COLLEGE. "C Square" is a private, 
independent, church- related (ob- 
viously related to an independent 
church) liberal arts college for 
women. You can buy it for about 
$3,597,000, if anybody's interested 
in buying a college. It has a two-fold 
purpose, "to free students from ig- 
norance, and to give students free- 
dom of action." Keeping that in 
mind, it shouldn't take a semantic 
wizard long to use those twofolds to 
his own advantage. There are about 
675 fish in "C Square's" pond, so 
reeling a couple in shouldn't tax a 
Tiger. 

And then there's the UNIVERSITY 
OF SOUTH CAROLINA. Plenty of 
heads and almost every one of them 
is in constant contact with a very 
fowl breed of mankind, a game- 
cock — the very word has connota- 
tions of vulgarities. Of course no 
Tiger will stay cooped up in the 
chicken coop very long; we're not 
insatiable, contrary to local folklore. 
After thoroughly exploiting our so- 
journ in Columbia, it's time to com- 
plete the circle and head home. On 
the way we'll make two more stops. 

Located exactly due west of some- 
place is Due West and ERSKINE COL- 
LEGE with its 300 coeds. The new 
Watkins Student Center is the show- 
place of the campus and is a con- 
venient meeting place. As far as 
recreational facilities go, for the un- 
imaginative, there are free flicks on 
most weekends. For the imaginative. 
Lake Greenwood isn't far. A blanket 
. . . And all this can be yours at a 
mere 45 miles from Clemson. 

And then there's LANDER COLLEGE 
in Greenwood. Ah yes. Lander; well 
the Roundtable is off limits, and it 
doesn't take long to tire of the Grill. 
The movies are a possibility, be it 
ever so glum. The most plausible 
course of action is to check out a 
head with "Mama B" and head for 
the hills, or the low country, or the 
mountains, or the ocean . . . 

There you have it, a brief run- 
down on where the girls are. The 
mass exodus starts each and every 
Friday afternoon. Luck. 







^c^^^ 




L 



GENTLEMEN'S CHOICE 



CHRONICLE 



BARBARA 

'That our daugl^ 
ace", Mount Ho 
Choice. Barban 
as a model and 
September's G.C 




JCHILUNG 

ters may be as cornerstones polished after the similitude of a pal- 
yoke's motto, seems to aptly describe September's Gentlemen's 

1 senior Art major at Mount Holyoke, spends her summers working 

ippeared in Look, Seventeen, and Mademoiselle before becoming 





till; 



lllii'i. 



E DREAM 



BY TOM SALMONS 



.^' 



y^i^^^ 



Ever drifting down the stream — 
Lingering in the golden gleam — 
Life, what is it but a dream? 

Scott Thomas finished reading 
Through the Looking Glass to his 
two children and looked down at the 
twin pair of eyes looking up at him 
in anticipation of more to come. 

"Is that all?" asked Cindy, that 
blond-haired, blue-eyed sometimes 
angel, who could wrap him around 
her little finger. 

Gee, Daddy, did Alice really walk 
through the mirror into otherland?' " 
Teddy piped in. 

Teddy was Cindy's twin and held 
almost as much sway with his father 
as did his sister. Together they were 
his pride and joy. He looked at the 
two shining faces and thought how 
wonderful was the imagination of a 
child. 

"Well, Teddy," he answered, 
"some grown-up men have said that 
reality is what you believe in strong 
enough, so I guess maybe she did. 
At least Mr. Carroll questioned that 
maybe it wasn't a dream." 

"Who was Mr. Carroll?" asked 
Cindy. 

"He was the man who wrote the 
story," answered her father. — "Now 
you two run along and play; daddy 
wants to finish HIS book." 

The two bounced off their father's 
lap and ran toward their room 
chanting. 

Scott watched the pair disappear 
into their room and smiled with sat- 
isfaction. To him, those two were the 
beginning and the end. They were 
his whole life. They were such vyon- 
derful kids he thought; no wonder he 
loved them like he did. He picked up 
his own book and began thumbing 
through to find his place. When at 
last he had found where tie had left 
off before the kids had brought their 
book for him to read to them, he 
settled back and lost himself again 
in the story. 



He hod only covered about two 
chapters when Teddy came bound- 
ing out of his room to ask for a tape 
measure. 

"What do you want with a tape 
measure?" he asked somewhat 
surprised. 

"We are playing Alice," replied 
Teddy a little impatiently, "and we 
need it to place the pegs." 

"Well I don't know if we have a 
tape measure. Won't a yardstick 
do?" he asked of his son. 

"Oh, no," replied Ted with a 
child's faultless logic, "it says in the 
story that the queen used a ribbon 
marked in inches to place the pegs." 

"Then we will just have to find 
you a tape measure," laughed his 
father. 

Scott searched through the various 
drawers and cabinets till he found 
the sewing basket. "Here we are," 
he said, producing a slightly worn 
tape. 

Teddy grabbed the tape and ran 
back into his room. Scott returned to 
his chair and picked up his book. 

"I wonder what the little monkeys 
are up to," he thought. "I think I'll 
just take a peek," he said to himself 
as he laid his book aside. As he ap- 
proached their room, he could hear 
the pair talking in low tones. He 
stopped at the door to watch. The 
children had stacked their blocks in 
five piles one yard apart, starting 
with one pile laid up against the 
big, full-length dressing mirror that 
covered one portion of the far wall. 

"At the end of two yards," they 
chanted, "I shall give you your di- 
rections. At the end of three yards I 
shall repeat them. At the end of four, 
I shall say good-bye. And at the 
end of five, I shall go!" 

With this said, they walked to the 
second pile, and Cindy said, "You 
will go to the 'land of the looking- 
glass. " When they reached the third 
pile of blocks, Teddy said, "You will 



go to the 'land of the looking- 
glass." " As they reached the fourth 
pile, they both shouted, "Good-byl", 
and at the split-second they reached 
the fifth pile, the mirror rippled like 
a pool of mercury, and they disap- 
peared. 

For a moment Scott didn't realize 
what had happened. Then he went 
charging headlong into the mirror. 

"What happened?" asked the 
policeman picking up one of the 
shards of glass. 

"I don't know," answered the 
landlady. "I was cleaning in the 
hall when I hears a crash from Mr. 
Thomas's apartment. When he didn't 
answer my call at the door, I let 
myself into the apartment." 

"You found him like this?" he 
asked, brushing some more of the 
broken glass aside with his night- 
stick. 

"When I comes into the bedroom, 
I finds him layin' there all bloody 
and the mirror all broken and all. So 
I calls you." 

Just then the ambulance crew 
came charging through the open 
front door of the apartment. 

"In here!" he called — "I don't 
know if he'll live, but he is all 
yours, " he said as he ushered the 
landlady into the other room. 

"Can I go now? " she asked. 

"Just a few more questions," he 
replied. "Where are the children?" 

"What children?" she asked, 
somewhat puzzled. 

"Mr. Thomas's kids," he answered. 
"I found blocks and a children's 
book next to him on the floor, and 
then there were some children's 
things in the room. Doesn't he have 
any kids? " he said frowning. 

"He doesn't even have a wife!" 
was the reply. "His wife died five 
years ago giving birth to still-born 
twins. He ain't got any kids or wife 
either, poor man." 

Illosfration by Ted Taylor 



THE DRINK IS BITTER 



I'm an old man, and my heart is 
old. And my soul is tired, and my rest 
is before me. 

I did what I could, tried what I 
could not. The vision that was before 
me is faded into the hairs that shade 
my eyes and buried in the years that 
line my brow. 

My hands, once firm, now tremble, and 
my sleep quavers at the unknown. 

My voice fails me in the darkness. 

I cannot see the path before me, and 

there is no torch 

that I can light. 

The flame of my hope is dead. 

Why did the years prolong the 
struggle and add the cup that drained 
me so? 

Left me a hulk upon a derelict sea. 
Thi" spars cracked with the strain, and 
my sails become remnants of stronger 
years. The salt of life itself could not 
sear the rawness of my wounds. 

I was stripped and flayed, brought 
before those tliat judge mankind in all 
his weakness. 

I was judged, and sentence passed. 
The agony of my crime was the in- 
nocence of faith and the hope of youth. 

And the years passed, the sands 

drifted, the leaves fell, and the youth 

died upon my breast as my heart 
cried out — 

Why hast thou forsaken me? 
I forgave them, but I could not for- 
give myself. 

The drink is bitter upon my 
tongue, and the taste draws breath 
from out of my lungs into an empty 
world. 



Frank Pearce 

CHRONICLE 



The Other Side of YHTSOq 



In keeping with the tradition established in years past, this year's editor in charge of 
the collection of trashy poetry. Dirty Dur, has amassed seven of the worst we've seen 
lately. If by chance you are one of those talented people who write bad poetry you are 
invited to submit the worst of it to be considered for publication. 



She's a pretty little wench 
Sitting there upon the bench 
Looking very coy and shy 
At every passing college guy. 
Ah, such eyes 
Concentric thighs. 
It's too damned bad 
She's bald. 

stolen 



A pretty young pig from York 

With some very nice slices of pork, 

Attempted to tame 

A Tiger of fame 

A now she is fearing the stork. 



At last I've found the perfect girl 
One could not ask for more 
She's deaf and dumb and over-sexed 
And owns a liquor store. 



Mary had a little lamb 
and he was black as soot. 
And everywhere that Mary went 
his sooty foot was put. 
stolen 



"Roll your shoulders; hold your breath 
This picture shall foretell your death," 
The radiologist purred in my ear 
As the roar of the machine aroused my fear. 
I saw the product of the rays, 

And prayed to God for a few more days 
Nicotine and tars provided the fuel 
For this twist of fate so harsh and cruel. 

Damn R. J. Reynolds and Sir Walter, too! 

May they boil forever in Satan's Stew. 

Thinking of them, I smoke the flue-cured leaves. 

And with every cough, my breast rocks and heaves. 

As I upon my deathbed lie 

Gasping the last ominous sigh 

The Siren's voice sounds with the weeping willows 

Cigars, Cigarettes, tiparillos. 

Compliments of 

John Tucker 

Emory Tobacco Co. 



1 



An indolent vicar of Bray 
his roses allowed to decay; 
His wife, more alert. 
Bought a powerful squirt. 
And said to her spouse, "Let us spray, 
stolen 



There was a young lady named Uhr 
Whose mind was so awfully pure 
That she fainted away 
In a bird store one day 
When she saw some canary manure, 
borrowed 



CLEMSON 
GIRLS 

With ever increasing frequency, the Clemson 
man isn't a man at all — "he's" a most at- 
tractive co-ed. Clemson s gentlewomen are 
certainly not as numerous as the Gentlemen 
may wish, but if they lack anything in nu- 
merical statistics, they definitely stack up ivell 
using any other statistical criteria. 

So with bug-eyed pride, ive present to you 
CLEMSON'S CO-EDS. 



JOAN REAS— right 
CYNTHIA BYRD— below 




CHRONICLE 




WENDY BEERS 

PHOTOGRAPHY BY GROAT MEDLOCK AND GARRISON 





A SHORT PkAY 
W FRANIC PeARCE 



SETTING: A street corner in Harlem 
with a lone street lamp. In the back- 
ground is a rather somber building, 
evidently a police station; because 
"Precinct XIV" is chiseled into the 
stone archway over the door. The 
scene is bleak. 

SCENE I: Eight members of the Sal- 
vation Army band enter stage left 
and assemble in a semi-circle about 
the street lamp. The first has a tuba, 
the second a clarinet, the third a 
tambourine, the fourth a trombone, 
the fifth a bass drum with "Jesus 
Saves" painted on it, the sixth has 
a pair of cymbals, the seventh a 
cornet, and the eighth a guitar. The 
guitar player is the leader. 
LEADER: Brothers, we're here to bring 
light into the blackness of Harlem. 
Let's ask for guidance before we be- 
gin our crusade. (All remove hats 
and bow heads) Oh, Lord, we're 
here on Thy work to glorify Thy 
name, to gather the strays from Your 
flock. Be with us, we petition Thee, 
as we demonstrate Thy love for the 
brotherhood of all men. Amen, (all: 
Amen) Our first number is "Are You 
Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?" 
Begin. (Band starts to play) 

FROM stage right enter ten neatly 
dressed men in white suits and red 
skull caps. They all wear armbands 
with LIAAUSM printed on them. They 
march to the front of the band, and 
the first marcher speaks. His name 
is Zulu II. 

ZULU: Hey, man. What's dis "lam" 
you talking bout? I been on de lam 
plenty, but all de blood I ever wash 
was off. 

BAND LEADER: We're here to wash 
you in the blood of His redeeming 
grace. 

ZULU: You get one specka blood on 
dis suit and I will remove dot git- 
fiddle from round yohr stomach and 
place it round yohr ears. What's dis 
fuss about? 

LEADER: We're here in the Lord's 
work. 

ZULU: Hey, man, dis is Malcolm's 
territory and you better tell yohr 
man to get you work elsewhere. We 
got dis route scouted. 
LEADER: Only the Lord's word moves 
us. 

ZULU: Well, look man, I mean you 
better git word to him to speak. Mal- 
colm don't like no monkey business 
what ain't his own. You dig me? 
LEADER: 1 dig for your eternal soul 
to bring you to the life everlasting. 
ZULU: You definitely do not dig me. 
What I am sayin' is git! 
BASS DRUMMER: We have no quar- 
rel. We came to promote peace and 
to aid our fellow man. 
ZULU: If dere is any peace promoted 



round heh — we does it. Malcolm 
give us dis beat. Nex time we has a 
party we'll give you boys a ring. 
Now blow dis scene instead them 
horns. 

LEADER: We seek only to blow the 
seeds of salvation into the blackness 
of your souls. 

ZULU: Da black . . .? Look man, dot 
was it! Discrimination, which is 
breaking de law and is not legal. 
(To man behind him) Obsidian, go 
into dis station and git a officer of 
da law to come hold up justice, 
(man leaves) 

LEADER: We break no laws and fear 
no man. Our souls are in His hand. 
ZULU: I don't know how soles is 
sellin', but dey ain't worth much 
round heh. (Officer comes out of 
building.) 

OFFICER: What's going on here, 
Zulu? 

ZULU: Well, sir, dis bunch has been 
standing about raving about some 
head man and a blood bath. Me and 
de fellows wit me was interested 
and asked dem a few questions. 
That's when they hurl some epitaths 
at us, and we sent for you. We got 
rites, and we demands them. 
OFFICER: We can't do anything to 
this band Zulu, (to band) 'Vou boys 
move along, now. Right smart, now. 
ZULU: Move along! (Band starts to 
leave) Move . . . .? Malcolm gone 
know bout dis — in a minute! 
(LIMUSMS exit) 
SCENE II 

Same place — that night. 300 Li- 
musms are mobbing the police sta- 
tion in a frenzy. Strange chants fill 
the air, while some members cross 
their arms and look east. All of them 
look hopped-up — one way or an- 
other. Inside the building, the chief 
is peering tensely from a window. 
Behind him stands a tall man in a 
white robe with a gold "X" em- 
broidered across his chest. 
CHIEF: Look, Malcolm, I know you 
have rights, but what can I do now? 
MALCOLM: Chief I only ask, never 
tell. The decision is yours. But my 
boys' actions depend on yours. 
CHIEF: Don't threaten me. (Malcolm 
moves to the window and makes a 
furtive sign to the mob outside. The 
roaring outside picks up tremen- 
dously. He turns back to chief.) 
MALCOLM: What is this talk of 
threats? All I want is your coopera- 
tion. Do I get any, or do I get any? 
CHIEF: (Pale and shaken.) What will 
it take to send this mob away? 
MALCOLM: Arrest the violators who 
flaunted our rights on a public 
street, insulted and belittled us. Jus- 
tice must be served. 

continued on page 30 



n 





OF POLITICS 

OR MOW 3 LEAI^WED TO 5T0F 
WCRRVING AHD 15E1IE.VE TWAT 




VcTTEL, C5up»»oBr WALUA.CE. 3 BuF VoTE^ 



CHRONICLE 



Tffmamnnp 



ionia« aiaiT. 



(IVPE A^ 
TWE. OLD GJA\iJD 




See. TME Sena-tor 
He- Uas Senor.\tv 

TWAT MEANS ME IS OLD 
ME l^ IMPORTANT To TWE PA^rY 
WE KEEPS M^S 5TATE IN LINE 
ME ALSO Educates THE OTHfR 5EH4T0e5 
ME REAPS TO TMEM 
ME Read^ twe Diction a^V 
And cookSooK^ 

EVE:n TEl£-PHONt QIISE-CTORIES 
So VOU CAN SEE 

Me: IS Vecv useful.. 



Ctt^e b3 

THE NEW "RSONTIER 



Seel the BugEAC KAT> 

(do not ^eap thatwo&p jt is a NAstv) 

+^E l^uNS A New pederal- Agencv. 

HE IS A DIRECTOR o 

Mis Agencv V)bl2t=:S) To iMPi^oVH Relations 

bETWEEM CATS AMD POGS 
ISNT THAT MUfMME. 

(f^EAOTUATWcJ^ti, IT 15 A GOOO EXCUS 
Mow PID SUCH AVOUKJG, IKlBfPE^lEWC 
MAM,GETSUC|4 am IMP3^ANTTDE>- 
EASV f 
|4e:AlWAV5 tDAV5,,VES« 




EVES WAVE eEE^N THE GLoeV.) 




A POLITICIAKJ 1^5 BseSSUREDw 
pRESSUREf PRESSURE f 
PRESSURE r 

People wmO PO TMiS A^E. 
Called Pkes^ore GRoof>5o 

THIS IS ALSO CA.LLEP COLLECTIVf l 

TMEL Pressure Gex/pGu-Ecrs 
A Bloc \XyrE, 

AnJDTHE RjLlTlClAf4S 

BarctINFor m 
Remembers 

TWeV A^E DEMOMSlEAT^gS 

Ncrr A Moe>- 




(or eat, DRIWK.AND be MEeRV. RJR VMAT?) 



CONVEMTIOMS A^C So FUN, 
AMD roT^ ALMOST EVERVONE o 
THEV GO TO Pic< TH-E KAM 
TMEV HOPE WIUL RUN TWE LAMDo 

EAc^4 Picks Tf+E man I4e li^e^ 

ANO MAMV DO IT WHILE TWEvfeE 
Tl&HT^ 



•^ Amv ResemblMoce 
a friend or f-oe 15 
hliGHLV Possible. 



To 



CHRONICLE 



TTrHlE [UlNlIEtMirPEjCD^yEtD 



Cor , F1^EX>OlEL -J^B. F15EH.LOAO&1^3 



Feoe^ai- <^ 
HAM-Dour/ 

OFFICE- Ce 




JH 



11 



l^E- ELECT 



Give: us Lot^o ^ 
Ou^ Weeklv doue C?) 
AMD EVEN! Moe^i 

ANO 8LE5S -m£ MAM 
TV\E: LEAIDET2. OF T44E: UAkid 
W/UO WiL-L. KEEP -mO^B CWECK-S 

A-Com\wjg iU. 
I'M y^^cyv A oop^ 

Ue'L-L GET OUR VOT&, 



^ NOT INTETMPED To OT=FENJD 

/ANV Supreme Court members 




(TAHIIB^IKEM JkcMD^ES 

Cor , SPEAKlMG OF FoeKEO TOMGUES^ 



that's ALU TMe: Campaigsjs A^e 

Ou^ Pou\TlC|AN Fl^lETNO 

Just- Ma»<es twem 5Vtwe Ooxen 
And 14e:'ui_ Ba Sure 

To kE^EP IT 

IF'M Vc;u'i?E. Mis Couf)iN « (barf/) 
(evet^ Wonoer^How 
THtV GET AWAV With IT" 
TMEV HAVE A SV^r^M 
THE: CME: - PAgTV SYSTEM.) 



I 



l^ mmsEm/Aumwi 



(or , HAS THE 6UPtSFME COUCT EVF^ I^AO THE. COW«>TiTUT10U ? ) 







s 



OEE^ THE LlSEgALt 'Sr 

M-E. IS A Good Gov. 

Me |"S A MOMAKJITAlSlAKi. 
THAX MEAM-S WE. Wouuci Selj. out 
H \'S MOTUEB , 

To Welp -me UMOERPRiviLEoec^^l 
HE Belien/es, i»0 Gooci TMIKJCS 
like: t>+€l UKi.. 

AWO SOCIAL-ISNA. 

(Akjo MtDicAjte. • 

A Liberal HAtes T2iGwnt>Ts 

Uk is OPPcrSEXi TO THt T^iGMr. 
V(OU KNCVvJ WlWCiT TWE. OfPOSlTE. 
OP RIGHT iS ? 



EEL the: LONSER-VATIVEI ? 
(now wash Vou(2 MoorH v^ ith Soap.) 
HE" 15 AM ExTicev*i*r 

BECAtrs.E He_ e)EUlE\/ES IN S I U-V TWiMGS 
LIKE THE COKJ-STITUTIOM 

AvjD America Fibst 
HE IS A PA-n^ioT 

(jUKT 15 OUT OP- ■STVL.eJ 

ITS Ta£3 Bad THc FOUMDE-R.S c;f cui? 

CauNTEV . 

Gc3T- MiXEO OP With E^rrREKAisT 

GC'ouPe, 

LiKe THE. MIKJUTEMEJOc 



. A y BEK^L 



<7^ HOvv/ X LEAlcNECi TO STOP V»/oRR.V(K/G 
AWD LOVE THE REC6, 







CHRONIC 



GOT 



DIME? 




TAKE 
IT 
TO 

HARPER'S 
5 & 10 

CLEMSON & SENECA 



WHAT'S GOING ON HERE? 

continued from page 24 
CHIEF: Malcolm, we can't arrest the 
Salvation Army. We just can't do it. 
MALCOLM: Well, Chief, from the 
looks of things, I'd say you definitely 
have a problem outside. Good night. 
(Malcolm moves to leave.) 
CHIEF: What about that mob? 
MALCOLM: Your problem. Chief. My 
hands are tied. 

CHIEF: They'll tear this building 
apart if they get much worse. 
MALCOLM: Your problem, Chief. 
CHIEF: (Stares hard at Malcolm, then 
wilts.) Okay, Malcolm, I'll issue the 
svarrants right now. 
MALCOLM: Thank you, chief. We like 
to see equal justice for everybody 
dispersed with. (Malcolm turns to 
window and makes a furtive sign at 
the mob — instant silence. He makes 
a second sign, and the crowd is gone 
in 30 seconds.) Good night. Chief. 
SCENE III 

A cellblock in the city jail. From 
stage left come 8 naked men — sing- 
ing hymns. Behind them comes a 
policeman pushing a cart containing 
a tuba, a clarinet, a tambourine, a 
trombone, a bass drum with "Jesus 
Saves " painted on it, a pair of cym- 
bals, a cornet and a guitar. Behind 
him is a second policeman pushing 
a cart filled, evidently, with some 
sort of uniforms. 
SCENE IV 

The street corner next day. A troop 
of girl scouts is gathered about the 
street lamp selling cookies. From 
stage right enter ten neatly dressed 
men in white suits and red skull 
caps. They march to the front of the 
group of girl scouts, where the lead 
girl holds up a box of cookies to 
the leader of the group and says 
something to him. His name is 
Zulu II. 

ZULU: Who you calling a choclat 
cracker?!! 

UNFAIR ARGUMENTS 
WITH EXISTENCE 

continued from page 6 

that have characterized the earlier 
more impressionistic writings of Mr. 
Ferlinghetti, the plays inspired the 
following (move over, Cossius Mar- 
cellus Clay) from yours truly: 
Life is not so bad 

so long 

as we long to live, it seems 
Which is not always 
Of course when days of war within, 
without 

Come penetrate those lost years 
filled with Self 

And Unless you have read a vol- 



ume of collected trite plots, you may 
not have guessed that the woman is 
a virgin, one male is a man and the 
other is not. And our three. The 
Soldiers of No Country, don t seem 
any too happy about the whole sit- 
uation, not even after Erma changes 
her status, and nothing gets too 
much better except maybe the plays. 

• A parable teaches a lesson 
Or so they say 

And it really doesn't matter if 

It doesn't 

So long as you think it does 

While reading Three Thousand Red 

Ants 

Which eavesdrops on a couple 

In bed 

Who seldom see eye to eye anymore 

Except maybe while looking through 

Opposite ends of 

Cracked binoculars 

Which leads to some 

Clever staging 

And interesting dialogue 

Unless perhaps your name is 

Kinsey 

• And then we have degenerate 

America 
Come tapping as a blind 

Indian 
Who frees a six-foot 

Alligator 
From the living room of a sick 

Old Maid 
Only after she too is 
Devoured by her obsession 
Which proves just as fatal as your 
favorite classical flaw 
And you won't find 
Alligation defined by 
Webster 

• And no one laughs at all 
As the pretty young 
Victim of Amnesia 

Gives birth to a glowing bulb 
With electrical umbilical cord 
Right there in her cheaphotelroom for 
LIGHT symbolizes HOPE 
■Which is not an idea 

very dear 
To the hearts of doom-drunk 
Playwrights 
City Lights and otherwise 

patronize 
Which just goes to show that our 
boy has 
Other thoughts 

Than many noughts for all mankind 
And thee 
Except the desk clerk is a fink. 

• You may not understand 
The Nose of Sisyphus 

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti 
Who May not have understood 
The Myth of Sisyphus 
By Albert Camus 
But everything seems 
More profound this way. 



PATTER 

continued from page 2 

ing poverty by wearing "hand- 
pressed khaki pants" and dropping 
such remarks as "Ah, how much did 
you say that textbook was?" 

With such methods as the pre- 
ceding being combined with the old 
run-of-the-mill type of flattery and 
favors such as tape recording the 
lectures, pretending to shift one's 
major to a particular prof's field, in- 
viting the wretch to speak at an 
event or to chaperone a party or 
really getting close to the prof 
through such things as baby sitting, 
the con man is practically assured of 
o good grade before he even begins 
his job on a prof. 

Still, we have covered only half 
of the true professional con man, for 
a major requirement of the truly 
good con man is a range of good 
excuses. The number one excuse is 
that of infectious mononucleosis 
which is quite hard to diagnose, 
lasts for weeks at a time, and al- 
ways seems to strike hardest at 
exam time for many con men have 
found it to be much easier to take an 
exam in the infirmary where one 
may have added conveniences such 
as one's notes under the mattress. 
However, it seems that the college 
professors appreciate the more origi- 
nal excuses. A certain Chicago pro- 
fessor notes the prevalence of "un- 
specified emotional disturbances, " 
such as "the experience of a boy, 
discovering his roommate to be a 
homosexual, just wasn't able to 
study. " Another up to date and just 
as original excuse, says the same 
professor, came from a boy who 
missed an exam and explained: "My 
roommate is going with a colored 
girl. Last night his father came to 
town to shoot the girl, and we were 
up all night barricading the door to 
keep him from her. " 

The last stand of the con man 
comes at exam time and this is the 
time when he must perfect his skill 
to its highest degree. Oddly enough, 
perhaps the best advice a con man 



could have comes from a Prof. David 
Littlejohn, an assistant professor of 
English at Stanford. 

In reference to exams, Littlejohn 
wrote: "Your only job is to keep me 
awake. How? By FACTS. Any kind, 
but do get them in. They are what 
we look for, as we skim our lynx 
eyes over every other page — a 
name, a place, an allusion, an ob- 
ject, a brand of deodorant, the titles 
of six poems in a row, even an oc- 



casional date. Name at least the 
titles of every other book Hume ever 
wrote; don't say just medieval ca- 
thedrals — name nine. Think of a 
few specific examples of 'contem- 
porary decadence," like Natalie 
Wood." 

"Keep us entertained, keep us 
awake. Be bold, be personal, be 
witty, be chock-full of facts. I'm 
SURE you con do it without studying 
if you try. WE DID. 



ALEXANDER'S 

DRUG STORE 



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Wtv^^^^^^ 



LET 

US 

KEEP 

YOUR 

EXTRA 

MONEY 




FORT HILL FEDERAL SAVINGS 
AND LOAN ASSOCIATION 



SPERO MELIORA 

continued from page 14 

have a perfect solution. Yes, perfect. 
Why not send all the blasted in- 
tellects to heaven? It would be worse 
than hell up there for them. They 
would never forgive you for it and 
would torture themselves far worse 
than I can. They don't want to go 
to heaven and are all too glad to 
get into my hell. That's their real 
heaven, and they're deceiving you," 
he concluded. 

" Deceiving me? How could they 
do such a thing? I'll not have it!" 
raged Christo. "Fiat justitia, ruat 
coelum." 

"Noble, noble indeed," replied 
John. "Let justice be done though 
the heavens should fall. Very noble, 
by God," he concluded, patting 
Christo on the back. 

"Devlin, you rogue, why don't I 
destroy the whole odious bunch of 
the scoundrels and devote my time 



and energy to the cockroaches? 
They'd be a damn bit more appre- 
ciative. Wouldn't it be better not to 
waste time on the intelligent idiots?" 
roared Christo. 

"No, that would be the hard way 
to do things. That would require too 
much time and effort on your 
part . . ." 

"Too much time and effort?" 
interrupted Christo. "It would take 
only a fraction of a second and 
hardly any blasted effort." 

"All the same, I still think it would 
be too much time and effort. I think 
it would be better to let them destroy 
themselves. Oh, they'll do it quick 
enough without your help or mine. 
In fact, I haven't even been cam- 
paigning lately, and the numbers 
coming down to hell increase every 
day. I tell you, as long as two 
humans are thrown together they'll 
destroy themselves with greed." 

"Yes, but I'll no longer be 
needed," whimpered Christo. 




Two Barbers To 
Serve You 

CLEMSON HOUSE 
BARBER SHOP 



MARTIN'S 



DRUG 
STORE 



Distributor 
of the 
Clemson Ring 




"You're not needed now, not by 
modern man. 'Vox et praeterea 

nihil.' That's all you are anyhow. At 
least that's what the fools tell me. 
Perhaps they are right. A voice and 
nothing more; sound but no sense. 
After all, what more are any of us?" 
asked Devlin. 

"Woman; if only I had not made 
that blunder with Eve. Varium et 
mautbile semper femina," he 

muttered. 

"Then it's settled. You'll forget the 
fools?" asked Devlin. 

"Yes, they can never change. It's 
even more than I can handle. It's an 
impossible job. I've tried for so long 
... so long," said Christo. 

"Perhaps you are wrong in a 
way," said Devlin. 

"In what way?" questioned 
Christo. 

"Perhaps it would be better if you 
changed. Man has tried to change 
you. He created you and me because 
he needed something to control evil. 
He was stupid but has since ac- 
quired intelligence. Too much. No. 
he created us and lost his control 
over us. He's been trying to change 
you and me ever since," said Devlin. 

"No!! You are grossly mistaken. 
Adsum," he yelled, pounding the 
table to prove his point. 

"True, you are here. But you are 
only here because man made it 
possible," said Devlin. 

"I shall follow your advice, Dev- 
lin. I shall forget man, the son-of-a- 
bitch will destroy himself and us 
with him. I see now that it is better 
this way," he moaned. "But I will 
no longer be needed." 

"Of course you will. The cock- 
roaches will need you." 

"Yes, the cockroaches will need 
rne. I had almost forgotten." 

"But Christo . . ." pleaded John. 

"No John, it's better this way. 
You'll see. Let us talk of something 
more important and more pleasant. 
Let us talk of the cockroaches, for in 
cockroaches there is truth," said 
Christo. "Spero m e I i o r a," he 
mumbled. 

"Yes, yes, cockroaches," replied 
Devlin and John in unison. 

At that moment a large cockroach 
crawled slowly across the floor and 
stopped under Christo's chair. 
Christo was unaware of the cock- 
roach's presence as he shifted his 
feet. His foot came to rest heavily 
on the cockroach, squashed it leav- 
ing a yellow-bloody mess on the 
bottom of his shoe. 



If the Chronicle makes 
you mad, don't do this: 



' cMSON r \ 



ouch! 



Ever try to make 
four thousand 
people happy? It 
isn't easy. That's 
why the Chronicle 
is a variety magazine, something for everybody. Maybe we still 
missed you. If we did we're sorry, but if you don't tell us about 
it how will we ever know? Let us know when you're mad at us. 
We'Jl cry a lot, but we'll try harder. 






m^mM 



PUBLISHING COMPANY 

San Angelo, Texas 




* '^- .^*^v ' '^; V'?*#-*^ 




-i\.«»x.. 



£-;i:.^-«kii 




Winner off 10 difffferent national yearbook award! 



^ 



CLEMSON 




u 



OM U [DIVERSITY LI^R/.RY 
UTH CAROLINA ROOM 



WELCOME BACK 
AGAIN ISSUE 
JANUARY 1965 




^ 



LIFE SAVERS 



LIFE SAVERS 
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'lIFE"WeRs^ 

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4kindsof icy, spicy mints 




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Well, yeah we finally did it, but 
not after deciding that the Christmas 
issue would really work better as a 
Welcome Back to Clemson Again is- 
sue. Please notice all the jokes this 
time. Lots of people asked us for 
them, and sure enough: almost a 
page of the cleanest ones we've 
ever seen. Then some people said 
they didn't like girls with straight 
blonde hair (not necessarily the 
opinion of the CHRONICLE staff or 
SEVENTEEN Magazine's fashion edi- 
tors. The November issue of SEVEN- 
TEEN has an eight-page spread on 
Barbara and some skiing friends). 
Anyhow, we proudly call your at- 
tention to Miss Mary Nixon on page 
17. Peter Davenport, editor-in- 
charge - of - finding - Gentlemen's- 
Choices, thinks you'll find Mary 
about fine as wine. 
There's more smut, but we've got 
some good fiction too. Garland G. 
Gooden walked into the office one 
night and brought more short stories 
than we thought there were in the 
world. His A Falling of Snow, and 
Beneath a Golden Sun make up the 
majority of the section. Dwight Reyn- 
olds, also a new face in the CHRON- 
ICLE, is well represented on page 14. 
Steve Carter, senior senator, is our 
guest editorialist. This editorial deals 
with the rat system as it now stands 
at Clemson. We hope everyone will 
take the time to read with an open 
mind, and consider the pros and 
cons as presented by the author. 
Then Bill Grindley analyzes the new 
library, and Ashley Paulk's Patter 
discusses some of the problems in- 
volved with the creation of a uni- 
versity. Dave Milling's book review 
is written to be read without a 
dictionary this time. The subject. In 
His Own Write, is an awfully clever 
book written by one John Lennon 
(the Beatle). You'll probably have to 
admit there's a helluva lot of good 
stuff in this issue, but back to the 
smut. Bill Anderson, our new fea- 
ture editor (all feature editors seem 
to be lecherous) has interviewed o 
real live belly dancer. Furthermore, 
she says she is one of six really 
authentic ones in the whole country. 
Everything else is stolen. 



CuaDu^f^ 




^^/-j;;:;.v 



CHRONICLE WANTS YOU 



"^'cp. we're still lookinp;. All over the place too. Sometimes we look in the 
oddest places. If you'n- one of those people who we might find in an odd 
|)laee. then you're prohahly our kinda person. If you can do anything at all 
you're right with us. Just you come on down to our odd little office in the 
(Ihronicle Building (formerly the Textile, then Physics, then Geology 
l)uildin<;) and do what ever it is vou do. 




Spirit, An Individual Experience 
By Steve Carter 

Have you noticed the changing 
attitudes here at Clemson in the past 
few years? Those of you who have 
been here for nnore than one prob- 
ably have, it's simple to see that 
we're living in an era different from 
that of a decade ago. At that time, 
Clemson was certainly going 
through the greatest transition prior 
to this time. What were the feelings 
of those directly affected with this 
change from a military to a non- 
military type of education? Regret- 
ful, anxious, selfish, to name only 
a few. But this change' has been ac- 
cepted in part. In part, it is my 
present concern. 

Ah, Tradition, the wars that have 
been fought in the name of tradi- 
tion. "An inherited culture," says 
Dan Webster. Inherited from what 
original source is the deciding factor 
which determines the merits or de- 
merits of tradition. Sex is a worth- 
while tradition which is "an in- 
herited culture" from generations of 
cultural and non-cultural folk. So we 
deem sex a tradition worth clinging 
to and preserving in the future. 
Hanging by the neck until death, on 
the other hand, is a type of tradi- 
tion that stimulates very little inter- 
est in today's society — a dead 
tradition. 

Most assuredly, we of Clemson 
University have our inherited cultures 
that are an integral part of the edu- 
cation that we seek. The tradition 
of singing our Alma Mater with 
sober minds and a common emo- 
tion, the stimulating conversations 
during coffee breaks, the triumphs 
and failures of a young man with 
individual ideals evolving from a 
society of frustrated fragments are 
all part of an inherited culture. But 
what of the traditions that impede 
our progressiveness, such as remain- 
ing a military institution and thereby 
limiting the number and types of 
educational advantages available? 
We maturely dissolve them with op- 
timism and anticipation that those 
who might be disenchanted for the 
moment may soon visualize the ad- 
vantages of the alteration. Such a 
tradition that impedes our progres- 
siveness is the current rat system. 

Questionable is the length of time 



that is required to father a tradition. 
Sex has been a part of society for 
the same length of time as man; 
hanging not quite so long. But if a 
decade arbitrarily makes a tradition, 
then our present rat system hardly 
qualifies. Contrary to the belief of a 
recent rat system advocate who ex- 
pressed his views in the University 
newspaper, the game of Rats yelling 
in the dining hall is hardly six years 
old. During the days of regal mili- 
tary here at Clemson the only yell- 
ing that was allowed at the meals 
was a seldom and brief cheer led by 
the head captain about what the 
Tigers were probably going to do to 
that Saturday's opponent. There was 
no compelling of the Rats to stand 
up individually and yell for the 
selfish satisfaction of an upperclass- 
men's introverted ego. The Tigers 
won and lost games then as they 
do now. No course of human nature 
has been altered by either approach. 
Oh, there is always rebuttal that for 
something to contribute to human 
nature it must be worthwhile for our 
society. In the length of time and 
space allotted for this personal ex- 
pression of views I do not feel that 
I could adequately explain my 
views on that statement except to 
say that it is thought-provoking. 

Looking at our present Freshman 
indoctrination program from a psy- 
chological point of view we can find 
arguments pro and con. Pro from 
those who advocate that what was 
good enough for me to be com- 
pelled to do is certainly good enough 
iFor my "inferior" to be exposed to. 
This is terribly close to the most 
asinine, illogical, and immature at- 
titude that I have ever been intro- 
duced to. Right off there are going 
to be those who say that I'm a hater 
of tradition because I believe that 
my fellow man need not suffer the 
same idiosyncracies to which I was 
exposed. Not so at all; worthwhile 
traditions will prevail among an 
educated society of which we are a 
part, and I will carry my banner to 
see that these traditions are 
preserved. 

There is the school of thought 
about the campus which feels the 
young freshman just out of high 
school must be "put in his place" 
before he can become a true Clem- 
son gentleman. So we set about to 
cut his hair, place a beanie on his 
now bald head, and compel him to 
yell at any time and any place 
about our campus community. I'll be 
the first to agree that we receive at 
our University those young Fresh- 
men who often have warped senses 
continued on page 30 



PATTER 

BY ASHLEY PAULK 



THE MAKING OF A UNIVERSITY 

Have you ever stopped to con- 
sider all of the problems that are 
encompassed in the making of a 
university? Quite likely, you have 
not, for a university's mere existence 
tends to be taken for granted by 
the majority of people unless i 
should be an irate taxpayer grum 
bling about the use of his taxes fo 
the establishment of a "party cen 
ter" for high school graduates 
Needless to say, those of you who 
have weathered your first year here 
at Clemson realize all too well that 
it is no party but is instead a long 
hard grind for an awfully meaning- 
ful and rewarding piece of sheep- 
skin. Still, who or what really made 
the university from which you can 
attain such a wide range of degrees? 

Although Clemson actually had its 
beginning with the original wish of 
Thomas Greene Clemson nearly 
eighty years ago, it has actually 
made its greatest progress within 
the last decade. After many years 
as a college, a title that implies 
being a quite different school than 
a university, Clemson dropped "col- 
lege" frQm its name this past sum- 
mer and attained the present name 
of Clemson University. But, was this 
just a change in name alone? I feel 
not, for with its present faculty, the 
many varied curriculums offered, 
and the size and growth rate of 
the school, the title of Clemson Uni- 
versity, if anything, is somewhat 
overdue. 

This progress of the last decade 
has not come about by chance 
either, but rather under the auspices 
of men like President Edwards, Dean 
Cox, and Dean Coakely. Through the 
efforts of these men and many 
others, a complex of schools has 
been established that anyone could 
quite proudly entitle a university. 
The establishment of these schools 
has required and continues to re- 
quire a great deal of money — there 
is over eight million dollars worth 
of building alone in progress at this 
time — but still, the buildings and the 
equipment of a university are not 
the nucleus of a good university, for 
the true nucleus is found in the 
faculty itself. This is an area in 
which Clemson has made significant 
gains; for over the years the faculty 
has been constantly improved to 
such a degree that over 50% of the 
faculty now holds doctorates. This 
is a fairly high percentage for any 



university and is definitely one of 
the factors which has helped to 
place Clemson in the numbers of 
the top engineering schools of the 
nation. 

Scholastically, Clemson has defi- 
nitely made immense gains in the 
last decade and appears to be 
lagging behind in very few aspects 
toward being a university in its en- 
tirety. One of these aspects, a non- 
academic one, but stiJI very much a 
part of a true university, has quite 
recently been initiated at Clemson- 
co-education. This is more or less 
a social type of improvement, 
especially from the boys' point of 
view, but it is quite likely the area 
in which Clemson is being a uni- 



versity in every sense has the 
greatest room for improvement. 
However, this improvement is sure 
to come with the completion of more 
girls' dormitories. 

The progress of Clemson of late 
has been and continues to be phe- 
nomenal, and although there have 
been mistakes, and complaints 
made by people about them — due 
mainly to the fact that hindsight is 
much easier than the foresight re- 
quired in the planning of a univer- 
sity — the administration certainly 
deserves to be commended for 
shaping Clemson into what it is to- 
day — a university in the true sense 
of the word. 



:beck with us Jor l^, 
:oIlege girl need?" 





ENIF'SHOF* 



LET 

US 

KEEP 

YOUR 

EXTRA 

MONEY 




FORT HILL FEDERAL SAVINGS 
AND LOAN ASSOCIATION 





Well, weve been waiting and wait- 
ing, hut nobody will write us a letter. 
If e really actually did get one but we 
lost it (no joke). It was from a Bob 
Jones girl who married a Clemson 
man. She didn't like the stuff Dave 
Henry said in "Where to Find 'Em." 
"Boh Jones girls are really nice," she 
says. After her letter we believe her. 
Besides, she's the only one who thought 
enough to write us a letter. 

Then the problem arises, what to do 
ivith all this space. So we decided to 
show y'all some of the really cool let- 
ters other magazines get. And further- 
more, if you don't write us a letter 
before next time, we are just going to 
have to leave this space blank. So 
there! 



Yale Record, October 1962 
To the Editor: 

Whatever happened to Dwight 
Eisenhower, anyway? I just learned 
how to spell his nanne and now you 
never hear about him anymore. I 
suppose next thing you know they'll 
be getting rid of Nikita Khrushchev. 

Florence Wee 



To the Editor: 

In your recent discussion on pos- 
sible Republican candidates for 
President in 1964 you made several 
good points. HOWEVER, may I re- 
mind you that Romney is not yet a 
political figure of stature, Rockefeller 
is divorced and left-leaning, Nixon 
is politically dead, and the dark 
horses are really out of the picture. 
Who then, is the man to fit the bill in 
'64? Who is of sufficient integrity, 
who is adequately handsome, who 
is of immense stature, who is for the 
people, who is capable of handling 
the job brilliantly, who is more pop- 
ular than Johnson, in short, who is 
Right? Think it over. 



Senator Barry Goldwater 



DAIL DIXON 

editor 

MARK MILLBOURN 

editor 



LYDIA THREAT! 

business manager 

BILL ANDERSON III 

feature editor 

GEOFF GROAT 

photography editor 

ROB BRYAN 

art director 

JOHN McCARTER 

fiction editor 

ASHLEY PAULK 

copy editor 

DURWARD STINSON 

humor editor 

TED KING 

advertising manager 

HARRY TOWNSEND 

promotions 

ALPHA PHI OMEGA 

circulation 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Harold Folk 

Dannie Oolighth 

Garland G. Good en 

Bill Grindley 

Jerry Johnson 

Micah LaRoche 

Margaret Jane Medlock 

Daie Milling 

Clark Rogers 

Frank Pearce 

Rett Rowley 

Gene Rudisill 

Ginger Sthroer 

Tony Smith 

Tommy Tonnsend 

Anne If atsun 

and Fred Busch 

)R. MARK STEADMAN 



faculty (idiisor 



I 



Chronicle 



JANUARY 1965 



VOL. V, NO. 2 



WHAT'S INSIDE THE CHRONICLE 







FICTION 


Garland A. Goodcn 


11 


A Falling of Snow 


Ihii^/it Rrynolds 


15 


Good Tuesday Good Maiden 


Garland G. Gooden 


23 


Beneath A Golden Sun 
FEATURES 




8 


Fronn Off the Floor 




17 


Gentlemen's Choice 




13 


Criticism of A New Addition 


Rill Grindley 


25 


Ballet De Belly 


Bill Anderson 




HUMOR 




22 


The Other Side of Poetry 




32 

1 


Good Humor Man 

REGULAR STUFF 

Hello 


Sieve Carter 


2 


Editorial 


Ashley Paulk 


3 


Patter 




4 


Letters 


Dave Milling 


6 


Book Review 





Ctjroi^ 






J HH- 


OUR COVER: Mike Medlock. HRM IV's. (last year's edi- 
tor), litlle sister Margaret Jane is a budding artist. What 




'•■f \ 


better place than the cover of the Chronicle to get a 




start. She's only six. 




.- 





The CHRONICLE is an official publication of Clemson University published about three times a year in Septem- 
ber, January, and April. Address all correspondence to the CHRONICLE, Box 21M, Clemson, South Carolina. 
Student subscriptions are paid for through student activities fees Other subscription rales: U.S. and 
pcssessions SI 00 per year; Canada and Pan American Union Countries S2.00; other foreign countries S3. 00. 
Entered as regular mail at Clemson, South Carolina (second class permit no longer pending thanks to South 
Carolina's seniority in the powerful post office committee). The editors assume no responsibility for the return 
of material, you have to come and get it. The opinions expressed do not necessarily coincide with those of 
the student body, the faculty, the alumni, or the administration. Our national advertising representative is 
College Magaiines, Incorporated, 11 West 42nd Street, New York M, New York. Member: Associated Col- 
legiate Press. Printed by offset in Texas. 





IN HIS OWN WRITE BY JOHN LENNON 

Cfjttnulf Review by David Milling 




IN HIS OWN WRITE by John Lennon 
Simon & Schuster $2.50 
Copyright 1964 

Did you know that one of the 
Beatles has written a book? At least 
that is what Simon and Schuster 
would have us to believe, and it'll 
cost you two-fifty. It seems that 
Beatlemania is fine, but John Len- 
non asks that we consider him in 
his own right. He thereby gets away 
with his first pun — the title of his 
book is IN HIS OWN WRITE. 

If you happen to go in for puns 
and worse, you will probably en- 
joy this book. It'll also help if you 
possess a rather sick sense of humor 
and happen to like the Beatles 
pretty much anyway. And you do, 
don't you? IN HIS OWN WRITE is 
a collection of short stories, poems, 
plays, and illustrations (Are you not 
familiar with the short illustration?), 
none of which is over three pages 
long. 

The third selection in this book is 
a poem and happens to be a mas- 
terpiece in malevolent glee; we 
therefore present it complete. It is 
entitled GOOD DOG NIGEL, and if 
it fails to satisfy your taste for the 
macabre, don't go away, because 
it's only the beginning: 
Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight. 
Our little hairy friend, 
Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright 
Arfing around the bend. 
Nice dog! Goo boy, 
Waggie tail and beg. 
Clever Nigel, jump for joy 
Because we're putting you to sleep 

at three of the clock, Nigel. 

There is even a brief illustration 
of Nigel and friends. 

This is one of the very few se- 
lections in which Lennon does not 
employ his delightful spelling and 
phrasing eccentricities, a peculiar 
combination of British slang, old 
fashioned speech impediment, and 
contemporary ignorance. Consider 
his opening paragraph to THE 



WRESTLING DOG: 

"Once upon a torn in a far distant 
land far across the sea miles away from 
anyway over the hills as the crow 
barks 39 people lived miles away from 
anywhere on a little island on a dis- 
tant land." 

Or the following from NO FLIES 
ON FRANK: 

"He journed downstairs crest failed 
and defective — a great wait on his 
boulders — not ever his wife's battered 
face could raise a smile on poor 
Frank's head — who as you know had 
no flies on him. His wife, a former 
beauty queer, regarded him with a 
strange and burly look." 

And for those of you who would 
be married in a wheelchair, there's 
a marvelous description of the wed- 
ding preparations from NICELY, 
NICELY CLIVE: 

"To hate and to harm . . . til death 
duty part . . . he knew it all off by 
hertz. Roger could visualise Anne in 
her flowing weddy drag, being wheeled 
up the aisle, srjiiling a blessing. He had 
butterfield in his stomarce as he 
fastened his bough tie and brushed his 
hairs. 7 hope I'm doing the right 
thing,' he thought, looking in the mir- 
ror, 'Am I good enough for her?' 
Roger need not have worried because 
he was. 'Should I have flowers all 
round the spokes?' said Anne polishing 
her foot rest. 'Or should I keep it 
syble?' she continued looking down at 
her grain-haired Mother. 

'Does it really matter?' repaid her 
Mother wearily wiping her sign. 'He 
won't be looking at your spokes any- 
way.' Anne smiled the smile of some- 
one who's seen a few laughs. 

Then luckily Anne's father came 
home from the sea and cancelled the 
husband." 

It is in such lines as the last that 
Lennon can lay claim to noteworthy 
expressiveness. In a dozen words we 
have a remarkable portrait of 
Anne's father — a distinguished and 
discerning seaman of uncommon 



lllusfrated By David Milling 

good sense! But so much for the 
more serious selections. 

Perhaps the most appealing as- 
pect of Lennon's nonsense is the 
straight face-writing with which he 
carries it off. The following con- 
versation is from SAD MICHAEL: 

"'Goodeven Michael,' the Polease- 
man speeg, but Michael did not answer 
for he was debb and duff and could 
not speeg. 

'How's the wive, Michael' spoge the 
Poleaseman. 

'Shuttup about that!' 

7 thought you were debb and duff 
and could not speak,' said the Polease- 
man. 

'Now what am I going to do 
with all my debb and duff books?' 
said Michael, realising straight away 
that here was a problem to be 
reckoned with." 

Also with this tone of sober de- 
tachment is the story of a SURPRISE 
FOR LITTLE BOBBY: 

"It ivas Bobby's birthmark today 
and he got a surprise. His very fist 
ivas jopped off, (The war) and he got 
a birthday hook! 

All his life Bobby had wanted his 
very own hook; and now on his 39th 
birthday his pwayers had been an- 
swered. The only trouble was they had 
sent him a left hook and ebry dobby 
knows that it were Bobby's right fist 
that ivas missing as it were. 

What to do was not the only prob- 
lem: Anyway he jopped off his lest 
hand and it fitted like a glove. Maybe 
next year he will get a right hook, 
who knows?" 

Also worth mention is the self 
portrait of THE MOLDY, MOLDY 
MAN, far too introverted to repre- 
sent our young author, Lennon: 
I'm a moldy moldy man 
I'm moldy thru and thru 
I'm a moldy, moldy man 
You ivould not think it true 
I'm moldy til my eyeballs 
I'm moldy til my toe 
I tcill not dance, I shy balls 
I'm such a humble Joe. 



Now Chronicle is number one. 
When you think of college 
magazines you naturally think 
of us. 



Chronicle hasn't 
always been num- 
ber one. For a 
while we were 
only number 
two and then 
people didn't 
think of us very 
much. Some 
people even thought the red "O" was a sex symbol. But 
not since we're number one. Now everybody thinks 
about us and almost everybody knows that the red "O" 
is only our way of abbreviating Chronicle. Spell it out or 
abbreviate it, doesn't matter, just do one or the other. 






You threw it on who? 



And now for nny next number 




FROM O 




Darling, it really is a tick! 



The cheerleader dropped her < 




You really do have a gold tooth! 



FF THE FLOOR 




'hat?! 



i 



^ \-i^. 



L. V 






t^ 







I got out of class at 8:30 and 
strolled back to the dorms. The sun 
was up high and the air was hot. 
Instead of going to the roonn I 
walked downstairs to check my mail 
box. It was empty. The first mail 
delivery wasn't for two hours any- 
way. I bought a newspaper from a 
vending machine and went into the 
canteen and had some coffee while 
I read it. Then I rolled it up and 
stuck it under my arm and went to 
the room. 

The room was dark and hot and 
it smelled somewhat like bacon and 
eggs that had been sitting for a 
while. The sweatshirts hung on the 
wall hooks slightly musty from use. 



I did not turn on the light or open 
the blinds. I washed my face in cold 
water and looked into the dark mir- 
ror to examine my beard. The little 
blond hairs were about an eighth 
of an inch long and those on the 
window side glowed a little from 
the light coming in through the 
closed blinds. 

I undressed and put on some 
shorts and went to the bathroom. I 
had found my checkbook missing 
the day before, so I phoned my bank 
long distance and told them to stop 
payment on the checks dated after 
the day before. 

I came back in and sot at the 
table, turning on the desk lamp. A 



moth flew onto the table and I 
pushed the blinds apart and flicked 
him out the window. I drew some 
graphs for trigonometry and wrote 
three letters and then I took out my 
notebook. I began to read over 
some of the short stories and 
sketches, marking the ones I was 
going to submit to the magazine. I 
lit a cigarette as I read and flicked 
the ashes into the garbage can. 

When the time came I went down 
and checked the post office box 
again. He was just putting the letters 
in so I waited a minute and smoked 
another cigarette. I received a letter 
from home and another from my 
girl. I also got a hometown news- 




Wli/l/|i|aKAu^^ 



ILLUS. BY 
BILL GRINDLEY 



A FALLING OF SNOW 



paper and a personal letter from the 
editor of a magazine saying that 
they had liked my work and would 
be happy to receive several more 
stories for publication. 

I read the mail and the news- 
paper and then threw it away. At 
twelve thirty I went down to the 
cafeteria and got in line to eat din- 
ner. I sat down at a table on the far 
side of the room and ate and then 
I took out a pencil and some paper 
and wrote some notes I had been 



BY GARLAND G. GOODEN 



thinking of for a story. I smoked a 
cigarette and took my tray up to 
the moving belt and walked out. The 
sun was hot and I had on a t-shirt. 
I headed down to the Y.AA.C.A. and 
met Pete and we shot a few games 
of pool. 

On the way back to the dorm I 
walked across the field and into the 
shade trees along the walk. I met 



Kay beside the Chemistry building 
and she stopped me. 

"Are you still going this week- 
end?" she asked. 

"Yes." 

"What about our date?" 

"I told you we had to break it 
unless you want to come along." 

"You know I can't do thcFt." 

"Why not?" 

"I have a class tomorrow." 

continued on page 12 



iin 11 



A FALLING OF SNOW 

continued from page 11 

"Cut it. You won't miss that 
much." 

"I can't. We're supposed to have 
a test." 

"What time is the class over?" 

"Eleven-thirty." 

"I could arrange it with Johnson 
to take off at twelve." 

"I don't know. I've never been 
before." 

"I'll teach you. It won't take you 
long to learn." 

"Can I let you know tomorrow?" 

"Tonight. I have to tell Danny." 

"All right. I'll meet you for 
supper." 

"O. K." 

I started to kiss her but changed 
my mind. I looked down at her a 
moment and she turned and walked 
in the direction of the girl's dorm. 
The light falling through the big 
trees around the walk was yellow 
and the shadows were dark green. 
They touched her back as she 
walked like so many pieces of yel- 
low and green racing down her 
skirt and falling to the ground, un- 
moving when they reached it. 

I turned and went to the dorm 
and climbed the stairs to my room. 
My roommate had already gone 
home for the week-end. I took off 
my shirt and inclined the fan to hit 
me as I lay down on the bed. 

I woke up about two hours later. 
I washed my face and picked up 
some library books that would be 
due the next day. The sun was 
down farther but it was still hot 
and humid. I was sweating as I 
walked to the library. I checked the 
books in and looked at a few mag- 
azines, and then I lit a cigarette 
and started back for the dorm. When 
I got there I went into the lounge 
and sat on a sofa. The television 
was blaring and a lot of people 
were sittino around it in the half 
dark. 

i sat down by Bob. He was read- 
ing an article about parachuting in 
a science magazine. 

"Hi." 

"Hello Bob, Watcha know?" 

"Hey, you really oughta read this 
article. It's pretty damn good." 



"Let me have it when you get 
through." 

I looked at a Post and he handed 
me the magazine. I read it through. 
It was an article on free fall with 
photographs taken from the national 
meet. The magazine was two 
months old. 

"Is that pretty much fun?" he 
asked. 

"Yeah." 

I was reading and then I looked 
up at him. 

"Why don't you join the club. 
We're jumping next Sunday." 

"Ah, I don't know. How much is 
it?" 

"Ten for the lessons and first 
jump, then ten more for five static 
lines. After that, it's three a jump." 

"What's a static line?" 

I was reading again. 

"Huh? Oh, t'sa long line they at- 
tach to the eyelets on your back- 
pack. All you do is jump and the 
cord pulls your chute open." 

"Oh, yeah." 

I left after I had read the article. 
It was very good. I saw Danny in 
the bookstore as I passed. I mo- 
tioned to him and he waved that 
he would be out in a minute. I lit 
a cigarette and he bought some- 
thing and came out, reaching into 
his pocket for his own cigarettes. I 
lit it for him. 

"What's up?" 

"Would you mind taking off at 
twelve instead of ten tomorrow?" 

"Why?" 

"Kay may be coming with us." 

"No kidding? Hey, I think I'll get 
Martha to come. Yeah, it'll be all 
right with me if it's all right with 
the airport schedule. I doubt if any 
airliners will be landing on our 
huge strip." 

"All right. I'll let you know after 
supper. You gonna be at Dan's?" 

"Yeah, probably." 

"We'll shoot some pool." 

"O.K." 

I went back to my room and took 
out the typewriter and placed i-t on 
the table. My notes were in my 
pocket and I read them over and 
started to write. It wasn't very easy 



going at first because no ideas came 
up, but after I got into the back- 
ground things began to set them- 
selves straight. I smoked as I wrote, 
using a paper cup with water in it 
for an ash tray. 

I finished five pages and the sun 
was beginning to go down. I got up 
and looked into the mirror. My 
beard was not growing so fast now. 
After it gets to a certain length, it 
gets used to the idea of not being 
cut and doesn't grow as fast. I 
washed my hands and went down- 
stairs for supper. I sat down at a 
table with my tray and after a 
while I saw Kay come in. She waved 
and got her tray and came and sat 
with me. Her blond hair hung down 
her neck and touched her shoulders 
on the sides. 

"Have you made up your mind 
yet?" I asked. 

"I want to ask you some things 
first." 

"Such as." 

"Where am I going to sleep?" 

"Danny and I have two rooms 
reserved. We'll double up." 

"What'll I use for equipment?" 

"You can rent it at the place. It's 
not too expensive. Or you can use 
Danny's when he's not. Oh, I for- 
got to tell you. Danny's asking 
Martha to go along." 

"Really? Is she going?" 

"I don't know. We'll probably see 
him in a while." 

Pete and Mike came and sat at 
the other end of the table. 

"Hey, you wanta go to High Falls 
tomorrow?" Pete asked. 

"I can't. I'm leaving tomorrow at 
twelve." 

"Where you going?" 

"Up in the mountains." 

"No kidding? What for?" 

"Skiing." 

"How you going?" 

"Danny's flying." 

Danny and Martha walked into 
the cafeteria and saw us. They 
waved. They sat on the other side 
of Mike and Pete. 

"Well?" I asked. 

continued on page 24 



J 




w^ 




A university needs a library,- ours 
was inadequate: therefore we 
needed a new one. All of this is 
fairly obvious to anyone who has 
watched the old facility expand to 
its limit and then become inade- 
quate. Simply put: What is being 
done should have been done long 
before it became critical. 

The library committee, in conjunc- 
tion with the former Harvard li- 
brarian Metcalf, drew up a program 
for facilities. This plan accounted for 
the needs of students using the fa- 
cility as they now do, and as they 
shall use the library building in the 
future. This assumes the limited cur- 
riculum of the present university will 
be maintained, which will help in 
keeping the number of volumes to 
some reasonable limit. This pro- 
gram, long under study, helped to 
define certain spatial requirements, 
such as spaces for reading, study, or 
reference work. It also helped to 
focus on specific items such as the 
South Carolina Room, and the 
Thomas Greene Clemson collection, 
items of specific interest and rarity. 

The program crystallized, the 
next problem is to establish a site 
for this proposed structure. It was 
realized that the center of the cam- 
pus was shifting away from Tillman 
Hall toward the southeast. This has 
been the site for the majority of the 
postwar buildings. This realization, 
plus the knowledge of how the li- 
brary needed to be used helped to 
place it in its present site. It was felt 
that this was the crossing point of 
interaction between various Schools, 
and the spot most convenient for 
students to drop off or pick up a 
book while transversing from one 
building to another. It is also the 
middle ground for the men's and 
women's proposed campi, making it 



even more convenient for use after 
classes or in the evening. This means 
the library takes on the responsibili- 
ty of a social center, a common 
meeting place in the center of the 
campus, walked through, around, 
and entered into if to be used by 
any member of the student body. 

Parking facilities were originally 
included in the Physics, Math, Eng- 
lish complex and are intended to 
be adequate for both buildings. 
Overlooking the library is the 
women's cafeteria, near the site of 
the present infirmary, once part of 
the future expansion plan. 

Post mortem criticism is some- 
what redundant, but there are a few 
points which need reevaluation,- 
if they are impossible to reme- 
dy. The question of placement in 
the center of existing schools should 
have been backed by more power- 
ful evidence. Just how much traffic 
is there between the P&A Building 
and the Chemistry building; the 
Chemical Engineering building and 
Long Hall; between Olin Hall and 
the Agricultural Engineering school 
and between the School of Archi- 
tecture and the Physics building? 
Why should the specialized collec- 
tions of libraries within the schools 
become property of the main library 
complex? Doesn't it seem more logi- 
cal to carry on work of a specific 
nature within a school; so that the 
student may refer directly to a more 
intimate and personally used li- 
brary? Of what value is the ability 
to drop off a book on the way to 
class if the same journey must be 
made later to pick up another? If 
this site is the center of the future 
campus, why then wasn't a pro- 
vision made for some sort of Stu- 
dent Union within the library com- 
plex itself? Is it not redundant to 



base a decision on the social criteria 
for siting and then deny the more 
urgent need of a social-academic 
center? 

The placement of the library in 
terms of sensitivity towards natural 
site conditions is a dismal and utter 
failure. Here on this broad and roll- 
ing site, potentially one of the most 
beautiful campuses in America, we 
must flatten the ground, knock down 
all the trees, and create a large hill 
of oozing red clay. A quick glance at 
the sketch in the present library 
shows the most unlearned that the 
site so selected is the former site of 
the spring house to the Calhoun 
Mansion. This simply means that it 
was where a rock outcropping gave 
off water from on underground 
stream, and that since it is one of 
the lowest elevations on the present 
academic campus it is the natural 
dumping place for all the rainwater 
runoff during the long rainy season. 
The inherent engineering problems 
of placing a massive building over 
an underground spring and the 
problems of hydrostatic head during 
long wet seasons are fantastic and 
financially phenomenal. 

The actual building is nostalgical- 
ly classical with a peristyle of mas- 
sive concrete arches encircling ore 
inset glass boxes in which all func- 
tions have been arranged. It is 
proud, almost to the point of being 
forbidding and successfully fulfills 
the quality of being a symbol. It is 
a radical departure, perhaps justi- 
fied, from the basic brick with white 
lintels of the indigenous campus 
building. Its imposing monumen- 
tality, reinforced by the planned 
esplanade and pool before it will re- 
inforce the fact that it is built for 
books and the almighty power of 
knowledge; and not for people. 



GOOD TUESDAY 
GOOD MAIDEN 



BY DWIGHT REYNOLDS 

Lightning flashed startlingly, giv- 
ing the landscape an instantaneous 
eerie effect by throwing the shadows 
of the trees on the reflecting sheets 
of rain. The accompanying thunder 
clap gave a final assertion that the 
serenity and warmth which had 
been the morning was broken now. 

Richard and Peggy were running 
now in a futile attempt to avoid the 
frenzied fingers of the rain which 
hod already saturated their clothing. 
They almost collided into the old but 
dry cabin beside which they hod, 
not ten minutes ago, found the final 
sample to complete their list of bo- 
tanical specimens. 

. Fortunately, the members of the 
deer hunting clubs who owned the 
cabin always left the deserted log 
structure open during the off-season. 
There were two paneless windows 
and a large fireplace with a stack 
of wood near the hearth, nothing to 
lock a door over. 

Entering, Richard noticed the 
basket of plants he was still carry- 
ing, although they were badly bat- 
tered now. Peggy followed his gaze 
as she entered. 

"Oh, throw them out. They're all 
ruined." 

Richard had not heard her and 
continued to stare at the dilapidated 
flora. When he spoke, his voice was 
somewhat higher pitched than his 
normal tone and he spoke too 
quickly. 

"Where did it come from? Every- 
thing v/ai so peaceful; then out of 
nowhere — dark, bam, crash! ril 
catch pneumonia again; I know I 
will. I hod it last spring, remember? 
I can't stand the cold, and I'm get- 
ting a chill." 



He looked up to see if Peggy was 
listening. She apparently was not 
as she hod taken a seated position 
on the opposite side of the door 
jamb from where he was standing, 
leaning against the wall. He kept 
his eyes on her as he crouched, slid- 
ing his back along the roughly hewn 
logs. 

Peggy was not the kind of girl 
that a guy wasn't proud to be with, 
although looking at her wasn't 
likely to make him want to run over 
the countryside ringing bells or any- 
thing. Her face was nothing special, 
one way or another; it just seemed 
to blend with the rest of her appear- 
ance. Her body was strangely inter- 
esting, though, at least it was to 
Richard. She had what could neither 
be a good figure, nor was she 
skinny. But, it seemed to Richard 
that she was overly condensed, that 
she had too much filling for the 
amount of covering her body had, 
almost if she would, if cut, not bleed 
but explode. 

He had been dating her for quite 
some time now, just over two years. 
That fact seemed slightly depressing 
to Peggy's Mother, who had recently 
begun a campaign of hint-dropping. 
Richard didn't really think marriage 
was a bod idea but when he was 
with Peggy he never thought about 
it, and as near as he could tell, 
neither did Peggy. 

But now Richard's train of thought 
was broken by a genuine fit of 
chills. His rain-drenched clothes hod 
triggered his unusual hypersensitive- 
ness to cold and driven his jaws to 
trembling spostically. The coldness 
spread from his arms and bock to 
his stomach, making him bend over 

continued on page 16 





ILLUSTRATION BY C. FLOYD III 



GOOD TUESDAY 
GOOD MAIDEN 

continued from page 15 
as he shut out everything but the 
chills. 

Peggy noticed and came quickly 
to stand beside him. She removed 
the light windbreaker which she had 
been wearing and wrung it out as 
best she could before draping it 
over Richard's quaking shoulders. 
Then she collected some cardboard 
boxes and started a fire with 
Richard's cigarette lighter which he 
rarely used, but liked to carry. 

Once the fire was crackling proud- 
ly, she returned to Richard, and 
capitalizing on her moment of glory, 
completed his submission by cud- 
dling his head to her breast and 
cooing softly to him as a mother 
might do with a sick child. She was 
relentless in her comforting; while 
Richard might have attempted to 
pull himself free, Peggy showed no 
sign of weakening. 

In complete submission, tears 
wetted his eyes and began to flow 
down his cheeks. He made no 
sound, but wept silently. Finally, he 
broke the quiet which Peggy had 
thoroughly enjoyed. His voice 
seemed firmer now even though he 
could not quell the tears. 

"Guys should never cry, never. I 
cried before though. I remember; 
there was a storm — I was only six, 
but I remember — much worse than 
this one. I was scared." 

"It must have been late autumn 
because the oil heating was going 
full blast and that's what did it. The 
furnace exploded, knocking me 
down, and the floor became warm 
before I saw the flames. 'Daddy 
help me! The fire!' My screams and 
the others hurt my ears, but he 
wouldn't help me. He never came. 
Then she was there, pulling me 
away — 'Mama, Mama, he didn't 
come!' " 

"Then we were outside and the 
fire lit up the whole block and the 
screaming didn't make my ears ring 
anymore. Hush, baby, he can't 
come anymore, he's gone away.' 



Then she pulled me to her and I 
could feel her tears on my face." 

"But I was too young to know, 
too small to . . . ." 

Peggy had pushed him away and 
made a scrambling leap into a cor- 
ner, from which she pointed shakily 
toward the window as she gasped 
Richard's name. 

Richard, forced to return from 
a world of his own and still suffer- 
ing from his chill, turned his head 
in that direction and saw what was 
frightening Peggy. Leaning against 
the paneless window, sniffing the 
air and grunting deeply, with his 
big head stuck in the window, was 
a large brown bear. 

Richard suddenly stood upright. 
And, before he knew what he was 
about, he was outside the cabin in 
the rain, racing nimbly toward the 
bear's side of the cabin. Rounding 
the corner of the cabin, he hit the 
trash can at full speed. He landed in 
a pile of beer cans, catsup bottles 
and cardboard boxes. 

Richard had never thought about 
what he was going to do when he 
faced the bear, but as he disen- 
tangled himself from the rubbish, 
he saw the bear beating a slow re- 
treat toward the wetter but quieter 
woods. 

As Richard walked back to the 
cabin door, he was a.ware that he 
had done a valiant thing — perhaps 
the first and last he would ever do 
in his entire life. 

Richard entered the cabin and re- 
moved Peggy's jacket which had 
managed to cling to him throughout 
the adventure. He noticed that he 
was no longer shaking and that he 
actually felt warm inside as he 
wrung out the jacket. He walked 
silently over to Peggy who was now 
crouching on the floor near the fire. 

Her back heaved with the half- 
sob, half-sigh climax of a good cry. 
Richard thought that it was surpris- 
ing that Peggy had shown even this 
moment of weakness, but he reveled 
in it now that their positions were 
changed. 

He gently laid the little jacket 
over her shoulders. 





M 




GENTLEMEN'S CHOICE 



MARY FRANCES NIXON 

January s G. C. is a local product ivho makes her home m Starr, S. C. 
She IS a graduate of Nancy Taylor School in Atlanta, Georgia ivhere 
she is also a part-time free lance model. Before being beautiful for the 
Chronicle cameras she was selected Miss South Carolina in the ISMss 
U. N. contest. Miss Anderson, and Miss South Carolina 
Merry Christmas! 



*^^^ 



J 





^ 



iii 



/i 



> 






Numerically 
speaking, if you 
still need con- 
vincing, Mary 
describes herself 
as being 

20, 5-6, 120, 
351/2, 23, 36. 

Hows Thatl 



. . JSl^mm- ^mw^i 




FOOTNOTE 

Seen, but often unread, among the leaves of humanity 

Is the fine print of faith. 

Still, it is there, and 

Those who cannot read, and 

Those who would not, 

Must mark it for future reference. 

Frank Pearce 
WARM CHILLS 

Contemporaries continually dying 

Around me as if I were 

A friendly, forgiving plague 

That causes and then forgives the passing. 

John McCarter 



BOHLES 

Tall . . . dark . . . slender bottles 

smooth . . . short . . . crystal bottles . . , 

standing in dark dusty corners of cold damp cellars 
whispering to each other on the wind . . . 

filled with sparkling liquid of 

crumbling dreams and heartache, 

of life . . . death . . . 

covered with thin layers of time . . . 

broken and empty . . . 
their heart of memories flown out 

and scattered in dust . . . 

proud warriors who long ago left the 
battlefield . . . 

standing in dark rows to be gazed upon by eyes that 
shine 

in the dark 

and understand not . . . 

the many things seen ... the many things done . . . 
now collected here 
to fade away . . . 

their voices now hushed . . . now stilled . . . 
remembering . . . 
forgetting . . . 

forgotten. 

garland g. gooden, jr. 




I never was a peaceful guy, 
I'se always in a fight, 
NOW I can be aggressive 
And still be in the right! 

In reckless youth I raced and sped 
In souped-up hotrod cars; 
NOW if some mutha gets ahead 
He goes behind the bars! 

I never was respectable 

With dames or deans 

But NOW that I'm a brass-hot bull. 

They all respect — or else! 

(last stanza sung slowly) 

O Clemson! Sleep thee well tonight, 
Be not by crim'nals harmed; 
We cops will give 'em hell tonight — 
We're good! We're tough! We're ARMED! 

Dennis Dick 
RANGER 



Well you local guys let us down again so we had 
to go abroad for the silly poetry. Lieuen Adkins, 
Dennis Dick, and Tony Bell of the Old Texas 
Ranger staff provide us with January's OSOP. 




Mary had a little Iamb 

Its fleece was white as snow 

Everywhere that Mary went 

The lamb was sure to go 

It followed her to school one day 

And a big black dog raped it. 

The Old Swimming Hole 

Did you ever go down to the old swimming hole 
and lie on your bock in the shade, 
Or sit on the bank there and fish with a pole? 
I didn't, 'cause I was afraid. 

For as a small child I was firmly convinced 
There were things in the old swimming hole. 
Whenever I passed it I shuddered and winced 
And feared for my wee little soul. 

One day as I passed it at 6:21 

A horrible figure was seen. 

I bolted for home like a shot from a gun 

And hid in the washing machine. 

But I could not forever lie quaking with fright. 
So my terror I managed to quell. 
I returned with some nitro the following night. 
Blew the old swimming hole all to hell. 

Lieuen Adkins 
RANGER 



The Barefoot Boy 

Blessings on thee, little man. 
Barefoot boy with cheek of tan. 
How'd he get so tan of cheek? 
Using Man-Ton for a week. 

Lieuen Adkins 
RANGER 

Percival Pifflewort 

Percival Pifflewort, gentleman scholar. 

Nature-lover of the first degree. 

Ran through the meadow with a whoop and a holler. 

All of his animal friends for to see. 

Picked up a little mouse, put him in his pocket. 
Picked up a toad and a June bug too; 
Percival ran with the speed of a rocket 
Down to the puddle where the bullfrogs grew. 

Picked up a snake and a white goosey-gander. 
Picked up a turtle, a frog, and a crow; 
Picked up a rabbit and a red salamander — 
Percival loved all his animals so. 

Carried all of these and an armload of others 
Back to his house at a galloping run. 
Percival loved all his animal brothers, 
Loved them so much that he ate every one. 

Lieuen Adkins 
RANGER 



Heretofore known as the Other Side of Poetry. 




There is a field flowing down a 
slight incline where it mingles with 
the fringe of a green forest. The 
stately trees cast long shadows 
filled with intermittent flashes of 
early morning light. A foreign chill 
hangs in the air, edges through the 
clothing, and causes each individual 
to clamp his jaws together and draw 
up to himself. 

You are lying on your back on 
a cot. There is a great rifling pain 
scorching down your back and your 
throat is hot and raw. The tent 
above filters the sunlight into a yel- 
low wash that tints the vague ob- 
jects about you. 

You are dimly aware of the pres- 
ence of someone beside the cot. 
You try very hard to see him but 
your eyes are tired and full of sweat. 
Everything is enveloped in this yel- 
low dullness, this still haze which 
cannot be penetrated. On the man's 
arm is a patch bearing a cross of 
red. You cannot see it. 

The ground is covered with mist 
which, as the morning progresses 
seeps back into the forest taking 
with it the night chill. The sun has 
become a thousand tiny pinholes of 
light edged with yellow in the tent 
roof. A dead heat has swept down 
and settled about the tent, twisting 



and hovering in waves above the 
ground. It has brought sweat and 
flies. You ore contained in this heat, 
lost in it, suffocating in it. The 
weight of lead is upon your chest 
and you try vainly to see, to move. 

The grass is waving lightly in a 
small breeze out in the field. At the 
forest edge butterflies are coasting 
about singing lightly, without sound. 

The shadowy ghost moves from 
the side of the cot, leaving a white 
cloth on your chest. Though you 
cannot see it, you con feel its white- 
ness covering the mouth which had 
spilled blood from your body. 

The light above is yellow, and 
each time you try to move, a searing 
ball of red pain strikes your brain 
and the light flashes white and 
slowly fades back to yellow. 

From another place, battle sounds 
float in the air, reduced to a dull 
rattle. You begin to listen to the 
quiet thud of your heart as it works, 
expecting that at any moment it will 
miss a beat, will stop. 

Yours is a small world with a 
great god, and you suddenly find 
yourself praying to him, your mind 
silently crying out his name. With 
each stab of pain your brain 



screams, and" there is no sound but 
the heartbeat. 

The tall trees wave almost in- 
visibly. 

A spasm seizes your throat. Your 
good lung explodes and- a trickle of 
blood weaves down your cheek, 
mingles with sweat, and spreads 
into the cot. A fly drones past your 
ear and lights on your arm, but you 
cannot drive it away because your 
arm will not respond. You know that 
your spine is severed and a dark 
fear drives slivers of ice into your 
brain, deeper and deeper. There is a 
taste of salt in your mouth. Your 
eyes are wide and they stare at 
the yellow light and you feel your 
heart speed up. You try to rise, try 
to make sounds, and there is 
nothing but the red pain and the 
hoarse grating noise from your 
throat and the yellow light. Your 
lips quiver as they try to form words. 
The trees wave silently. The cloth on 
your chest is red. The butterflies 
flicker about the forest's edge. Your 
eyelids flutter. The sun is passing. 
The pain . . . The heat . . . The wav- 
ing grass . . . The sound of battle 
. . . The heartbeat . . . Fear . . . 

"Our Father . . ." 

Yellow light . . . yellow light . . . 

"Who art . . ." 



BENEATH A GOLDEN SUN 



By Garland G. Gooden 



A FALLING OF SNOW 

continued from page 12 

"I talked her into it when she 
heard Kay was coming." 

"Kay isn't coming," I said to pull 
a funny and make Kay make up her 
mind. 

"What" and "How come?" and 
"Who says?" came from three dif- 
ferent sides of the table. 

"She hasn't made up her mind." 

"Yes I have. I guess I'll go." 

"Good. Come around at eleven 
thirty." 

"That's when I get out of class." 

"Have everything ready. Don't 
bring a lot of junk." 

"You know better than that." 

"I'm only kidding you." 

After supper I walked Kay to her 
car and offered to ride with her to 
the girl's dorm. But I didn't go. I 
went upstairs and got my bathing 
suit and walked to the Y.M.C.A. 
Hardly anyone was there and I prac- 
ticed a lot of diving. Paul, the life- 
guard, was sitting in a little room 
at the corner of the pool reading a 
magazine. When everybody left I 
swam up to the side of the pool and 
rested my head on my arms. Paul 
gave me a cigarette and we talked 
for a while. Then he came in and 
we dove a while until after closing 
time. Then we went and shot a few 
games of pool for a dime a game. 
After I left I walked down to Dan's 
and Danny was sitting with Cressler 
watching color television and drink- 
ing cokes. 

"Ready to leave?" he asked as I 
sat down. 

"I haven't packed anything yet. 
Are the skis on the plane?" 

"Yeah. I went out and checked 
her today and she's ready to go." 

"I'm glad the girls are going." 

"Yeah. That oughta be fun." 

"Does Kay know how to ski?" 
Cress asked. 

"No. I'll have to teach her." 

"Martha doesn't either," Danny 
said. 

We had a cigarette and Danny 
and I left Cressler and walked back 
to the dorm. Danny helped me pack 



some things and we went to the 
lounge. We watched television for 
about an hour and I left and I went 
to the room and wrote some more 
on the story. I was out of cigarettes 
so I walked down to the vending 
machine corner out on the court and 
bought some and a carton of milk. 
Then I went back up and finished 
four more pages and quit. 

I undressed and put all my dirty 
clothes in a duffel bag and hung 
it on the wall hook. Then I went 
down to the shower room. It was 
empty and the window was open 
with a chilly breeze flowing in. I 
turned on the shower warm and 
washed off. After that I stood and 
let the hot water run down my 
back and chest. I hung my head 
back in it and it felt good in my 
hair. I turned it off and dried off 
and walked to the window in the 
cool breeze and looked out over 
the dark hillsides. I was on the 
eighth level and could see for a long 
way. Lights were running down the 
highway on the farthest hill and 
other lights showed up where there 
was nothing but forest during the 
day. 

After a while I went back to the 
room and smoked and read a chap- 
ter of an Ernest Hemingway book. 
Then I brushed my teeth and turned 
the fan upward so that it would hit 
me and I turned off the lights and 
climbed into the upper bunk. I lay 
on the sheet with the spread down 
and thought for a while. Dim light 
was filtering through the closed 
blinds and I heard somebody walk 
past on the concrete three stories 
below my window. The building 
was on a hill and the eighth level 
on one side was only three stories 
on the other. 

Pretty soon I was thinking about 
flying down the blue ice slopes on 
skiis and I thought of the little re- 
sort in the mountains that not many 
people knew of. It was a beautiful 
spot with little cabins around the 
main building with a cliff at their 
backs and pine forests around them 
with snow lying among the trees 
and drooping the limbs down. From 
our cabin you could see the moun- 
tains as they reached around in a 
semicircle from our front to behind 
and cradled a wooded valley into 
themselves. Trees grew up the slopes 
and above the trees were snow 
banks that looked blue from the 
distance. Naked rocks stood straight 
and high above the banks and ap- 
peared shadowy when viewed from 
the telescopes. I thought of how 



much fun Kay and I would have in 
this beautiful place. 

And then the thought turned into 
a dream. 

Day began. And with it came the 
sunlight. I woke very early and lay 
in the bunk watching the light grow 
on the walls and the ceiling. The 
blinds were closed and the light 
was gray. I had only slept about 
five hours. Finally, I got up and slid 
down to the floor and put on a pair 
of blue shorts. I cracked the blinds 
and looked out and down to the 
parking lot. Things were beginning 
to stir and a bird flew up and 
perched on the ledge outside my 
window. I watched him for a mo- 
ment and then made a cracking 
noise with the blinds. He cocked his 
head to the side and looked up at 
the window and flew off. 

I closed the blind back and put 
on my shoes without socks. The 
room was still rather dim so I 
switched on the light above the sink 
and looked in the mirror. I was still 
tired from just getting up and I 
stood for a long time leaning on the 
sink and looking at my beard and 
hair. I washed my face with cold 
water and didn't dry it. I turned and 
leaned backwards on the sink, the 
water dripping off my nose and 
down my hair onto my chest. It was 
very hard to stay awake. 

I went down to the cafeteria and 
ate breakfast and came back up. I 
set my alarm for ten o'clock, took 
an aspirin, and got back in the bed 
with my clothes on. 

I fell asleep on my back and 
dreamt that we were in the plane 
very high off the ground and there 
were clouds around us. The buzzing 
of the motor kept getting louder 
and louder and it got on my nerves. 
Slowly I realized that the buzzing 
was the alarm, so I woke up and 
turned it off. I got up and changed 
into long pants and brushed my 
teeth and combed my hair. I locked 
my door and went down two flights 
to Danny's room. Cress was there. 

"You going to drive us to the 
strip?" I asked him. 

"Yes." 

I sat on Danny's bed and lit a 
cigarette. 

"How many times does this trip 
make?" I asked him. 

"The fourth, I think. It was so 
damn long ago the first time I'm 
starting to get them all mixed up." 

continued on page 26 



I 




Ballet De 
Belly 

CHRONICLE INTERVIEW 
BY BILL ANDERSON III 



Certainly even the gay Grecian muse 
Terpsicore would be startled by today's 
bold, authentic, art of belly dancing. 
Concisely termed by the French "danse 
du ventre," this so called "ballet de 
belly" is presumed to have developed 
in orgiastic cults of the fertility god- 
desses in the Near East. 

True belly dancing is a controlled 
movement of muscles without moving 
the whole body. Usually performed by 
buxom ladies with slowly revolving 
(and nicely rounded) abdomens, the 
rhythmic sound inciting the muscular 
movements has been called "Richard 
Strauss music integrated with an Os- 
car Wilde theme." 

Most successful of the belly dancers 
in this country during its early origi- 
nation in western mining towns was 
Salome, whose "Dance of the Seven 
Veils" was sufficiently exciting to in- 
cite the miners to name a town after 
her. Among today's proud professional 
practitioners of the unencumbered 
muscled midriff dancers is olive- 
complexioned Jameela, who has gra- 
ciously consented to an informal 
CHRONICLE interview. 



^eep down in a dimly-lit corner in 
the Brookgreen Room of the 
Ocean Forest Hotel, a jet block- 
haired, cosmetic-covered, olive com- 
plexioned face stared this writer in 
the eye and in no uncertain terms 
declared, "Either you're born with 
it or you're not. " 

With slightly over fifteen years of 
experience under her belt (or belly 
to be precise), this boisterous, una- 
bashed belly dancer declares, "Belly 
dancing is an art. It will never go 
out of style. It excites everybody. 
People seem to enjoy it more than 
any other dance simply because it 
is so different." 

Proudly possessing the profes- 
sional name of Jameela, the auda- 



cious dancer avows herself as one 
of only six "original" belly dancers 
in the United States. Respectably 
termed "Arabian dancers," an 
"original" must be a native of Iraq, 
Cairo, Turkey, or Lebanon. Jameela 
was born in Baghdad, Iraq, and ex- 
plains that Arabian dancing is the 
native dance of her country. "That's 
why it comes natural to me. I was 
born into it. I think I'm the only 
'original' on the East Coast." 

Although many Greeks and Ital- 
ians bestow upon themselves Ara- 
bian names, they are not "origi- 
nals," but usually take lessons and 
present an acceptable imitation. 
Most belly dancers are Moslems, al- 
though Jameela is Catholic. 



Also a housewife and mother to 
three boys, Jameela considers her 
bold profession "very ideal." "It's 
a good occupation for a mother be- 
cause it brings in good money. I 
make between $400 and $500 a 
week when I work at a night club. 
About half of the belly dancers are 
married and hove children. Most 
have two or three kids. Shape? — it 
doesn't mean a thing. I've had three 
children and it hasn't gotten me out 
of shape." 

Additional inquiry disproved any 
sisterly homogeneity between belly 
dancers and strippers. "Anybody 
can strip! Anybody! To hell with all 
the strippers! Belly dancers are try- 
continued on page 27 



A FALLING OF SNOW 

continued from page 24 

"You all packed?" 

"Yes." Danny was fronn Florida. 

"Hand me that ash tray. Thanks." 

I flicked ashes. "Look here, Dan- 
ny," I said, "how long have you 
had your license?" 

"For flying? About a year and a 
half." 

"Was it hard to get?" 

"Not really." 

"I want one. Of course I don't 
have a plane." 

"The one I'm using is my 
Father's." 

"I know." 

"When are you coming back?" 
Cress asked Danny. 

"Sunday night." 

"You going to shack up with 
Martha?" 

"I doubt it." 

"How about you?" he asked me. 

"I'm not planning anything." 

At eleven o'clock we put the 
things in the trunk of Bix's car and 
went to the canteen to get some- 
thing to drink. 

"I got hold of two bottles of 
wine," Danny said. 

"I've got some champagne and a 
half of scotch." 

"How much champagne?" 

"Two bottles." 

"What kind is it? Import?" 

"No. New York State." 

"That's good enough." 

"It's good stuff." 

"There's an ice chest in the plane. 
We can use the ice machine at the 
lodge." 

At eleven fifteen Cress drove us 
to the girl's dorm and we waited 
for Kay and Martha to get back 
from class. When they came, we put 
their things in with ours and started 
for the field. Danny's plane was be- 
side the hangar. It was a single 
engine four seater. He got it in 1959. 

We crammed all the bags into 
the little compartment and I took 
my typewriter into the cabin. Danny 
went into the tower for a while and 
we stood around and smoked. When 
he came out we said goodbye to 
Cressler and he went out the gate 
and stood by the car to watch. 
Danny and I sat up front for the first 
of the trip and the girls in the back. 
We taxied down the runway and 
lifted off very gently. He circled once 
and we could see Cressler very far 
below still by the car. The sun was 



very bright and he headed north- 
northwest at about 2500 feet. 

After an hour, Martha and I 
switched places and I sat beside 
Kay. I put my arm around her. There 
wasn't very much room. 

' leaned over and brushed back 
her hair with my nose. 

"Happy?" 

She looked at me. "Yes." 

Danny nosed the plane down and 
we came out of a cloud bank over 
the mountains. I had slept and I 
didn't know how long we had been 
up. Danny called the airport and 
Kay was asleep with her head on 
my shoulder. I kissed her on the 
forehead. 

Danny landed on a private air- 
strip a few miles from the lodge. 
We hired a car and rode to the lodge 
in the back. Danny opened his suit- 
case and took out a bottle of wine. 
He broke the seal and opened it. 
Danny took a long swallow out of 
the bottle and handed it to me. The 
bottle was chilly because of the cold 
air and I drank three swallows. Then 
he corked it and put it back. 

I paid the driver at the lodge 
while Danny and the girls went into 
the lodge. Danny registered and 
came outside with me. There weren't 
very many people at the lodge this 
early. The slopes had few runmarks 
in them. The chair lift was empty 
and stopped. 

The snow was light and loosely 
packed. There were four inches 
under our feet. At the edge of the 
steps it was brown and slushy but 
over among the trees there was a 
crust over the top. 

We went in and got our key and 
baggage and took it to the cabin. 
There was a pile of cut logs near the 
door with a layer of snow over them 
and inside was a smaller pile 
against the wall next to the fire- 
place. The windows were storm- 
proofed and the shades were down. 
Two cots were against another wall 
and a table and chairs stood in the 
center. Along the wall with the large 
window overlooking the valley was 
a sink and two cabinets hung above 
this. Nearby was a stove and next 
to this, a refrigerator. The floor was 
clean. The dust had been swept 
away and the cots had been pre- 
pared for sleeping. 

I went back outside and took 
Kay's bags into her cabin. Danny 
took the ice chest and filled it with 
snow from the trees and we put the 
wine bottle and champagne bottle 
in it and set it on the floor by the 
sink. He put the other bottles in the 



refrigerator and the scotch in the 
cabinet. I started the fire going and 
put on some big logs. Then I went 
out and brought in several more. 

The sky was beginning to cloud 
over in the east and the sun was al- 
most ready to go down. We all went 
to the restaurant and ate and I went 
out to the terrace to see if the snow 
was going to fall. I sat down in a 
wooden chair which was cold 
through my pants legs. I watched 
the stars blink out one by one as 
they were covered by the clouds and 
I lit a cigarette. Its smoke mixed with 
the carbon dioxide frosting from my 
breath and I bundled' up in my 
sweater and jacket. A cold breeze 
blew across my face and I shivered. 

I flipped the cigarette out into 
the snow and it smoked for a mo- 
ment and turned damp. After a 
while the first flakes began to drift 
silently down. I sat there and my 
face was very cold and I was warm 
inside the sweater. A couple came 
out and walked down the steps into 
the dark past my cigarette. 

Presently the snow fell harder and 
I got up and went back inside. Dan- 
ny was talking about the time we 
flew up to Vermont for a week. 

"Is it snowing?" 

"Yes. Fairly hard." 

"Why don't we go back to your 
cabin and play cards or some- 
thing?" 

"O. K." 

The snow was falling even harder 
when we left. We went back to the 
cabin and sat around the table. The 
fire was going well and Danny 
poured wine into the glasses. We 
drank the bottle and the one of 
champagne and Danny and I began 
to drink scotch and water. I was 
very high but I could control myself. 
The champagne made me feel very 
dizzy and I concentrated on staying 
alert. I smoked a while and pretty 
soon I had a headache. I don't think 
it was from the alcohol. I lay down 
on a bunk with a drink and the 
others continued playing three 
handed bridge. I was humming a 
drinking song and Kay came over 
and sat on the bed beside me. She 
put her hand on my forehead and 
then on my cheek. Then she put her 
back to the wall and stretched her 
legs out on the bed beside me. I 
turned a bit and put my head on her 
thigh and she began to stroke my 
hair. 

I woke up in the middle of the 
night. I couldn't see anything and 
then my eyes got used to the dark- 
continued on page 28 



BALLET DE BELLY 

continued from page 25 

ing to get rid of them. I will not 
perform in a night club if there is 
a stripper in the crowd. I want to 
perform with the talent. Most Ara- 
bian dancers feel the same as I do. 
Belly dancing is popular because 
there is an art to it, not just 
stripping. Many strippers have tried 
to be belly dancers, but they are 
only amateurs." 

Jameela became a professional at 
the age of eighteen. Since then she 
has performed at such places as the 
Dunes in Las Vegas, the Port Said in 
Washington, D.C., the Tropicana in 
Greensboro, the Pecan Grove in 
Charlotte, and the Fountainbleau in 
Miami. In the summer months she 
works with conventions at the Ocean 
Forest Hotel and has been living for 
eight years in Myrtle Beach. During 
the resort season's off season, she 
schedules winter engagements at 
night clubs in New Orleans and 
Greensboro. "I have about three 
agents. That's how I get booked. 
Three is all I need or I would work 
myself to death. Belly dancers are 
usually very much in demand. How- 
ever, I don't take more than a two 
week booking at a night club since 
I don't like to be away from the 
kids very long." 

"Why I'm a belly dancer? You 
have to enjoy night life and per- 
forming for people. I knew inside 
that I could make it. I enjoy night 
life, I love people, and I knew I 
could give them something they 
would enjoy. I love every minute of 
my performance. It's not just for 
money." 

"No, people will never get tired 
of belly dancing. There is something 
about the dance that attracts men 
to it. It is not the sex. It's the cos- 
tume, movement of the body, and 
the personality of the stage. Inhaling 
of the body and muscle movements 
make it much different from any 
other dance. It excites everybody — 
they seem to enjoy it more because 
it is so different." 

"Who belly dancing appeals to? 
To all kinds of people. Naturally, it 
appeals to men more, but I have 
seen women enjoy it just as much. 
I've actually had more compliments 
from women than men." 

"Yes, I put a real diamond in my 
belly button and use stage makeup 
on my face, but none on my body. " 



"Little Egypt? She's a cute per- 
former and a very good one too." 

Completing the last few quips 
concerning her proud profession, 
outspoken Jameela made it clear to 
a writer with blood-shot eyes that 
in show business "it depends on 
who you know." With this tersely 
stated, the unabashed belly dancer 
promptly abandoned the dimly-lit 
corner and departed, quickly vanish- 
ing from sight in the smoke-filled 




"He likes children." 




SKELTONS 

Downtown Clemson 




;4luKKfi 'R.tA'Of 



ALEXANDER'S 



DRUG STORE 



A FALLING OF SNOW 

continued from page 26 

ness and things began to swim into 
view. The fire was nothing but a 
few smoking ashes and Danny was 
asleep in the other cot. It was quiet 
except for the wind blowing outside. 
I didn't want to sleep. I got up and 
my clothes were still on. I tiptoed 
over and opened the door. It 
squeaked a little and I stood and 
looked back over at Danny. He was 
still asleep. I went out and pulled 
the door to and walked over the 
fresh snow to the chair lift. The 
clouds were gone and the moon was 
out and full. There were not many 
stars. I looked at my watch and it 
was almost dawn. The sun would 
rise in about and hour and a half. I 
went back over and took my skis 
off the rack on the wall of the cabin 
and put them over my shoulder. 
Then I headed up the slope to the 
summit of the slope. It was very 
light and I could see in among the 
trees along the edge of the ski run. 

My feet were warm inside my 
boots and I reached the top in half 
an hour. 

The sky was turning yellow-gray 
in the East and I put the skis on my 
boots and pushed the spring bind- 
ing down. Then 1 lashed the leather 
thongs about my ankles. The snow 
was blue in the light and I poled 
down the slope. I went down about 
half-way very fast and then I turned 
up into a side trail and headed 
down at an angle to the slope. The 
powdery snow hissed up in spray 
tails behind me and I crouched as I 
started down again. I jumped a rise 
and turned out of the straightaway 
up around a group of pines and 
came out again. I stopped about a 
third of the way back and looked 
up to the summit. The snow was 
turning whiter and the sky was clear 
of stars behind it. The moon had 
turned white and was running 
quickly from the sunlight. I went 
down again and began to make 
jump turns at the edge of the run. 
Then I was down and I took the 
skis off and leaned them against 
the cabin. I went in and opened the 
other bottle of wine and drank 
some. Then I put it back and took 
off my clothes and got into the bed. 
It was almost three hours later 
and the sun was high. Danny woke 
me and we went to the lounge and 
ate breakfast. Outside the snow was 
quietly white on the ground and the 
sun was bright against it. We took 
the chair lift to the top of the moun- 
tain and came down. 

We put our skis in the cabin and 



walked eastward over a spur of the 
mountain to the other side. From 
there the land spread away and the 
mountains circled around toward the 
East and then south. The slopes were 
covered with snow and pine trees 
and the sun produced sharp shad- 
ows against the rock above us. Be- 
low, the mountain dropped off and 
ran away to the valley and there 
was a brook gurgling out from be- 
neath the snow blanket, forming a 
cold, clear waterfall at the cliff. On 
the other side we could see smoke 
rising straight up from among the 
trees. 

We sat on a rock and rested our 
ski boots on a smooth stone be- 
neath. 

"I'm tempted not to go back." 

"Me too," Danny said. "We'll 
have to come back one last time 
before the season's over." 

"What are you going to do after 
we finish this year?" I asked him. 

"I guess I'll get a job with my 
Father's firm in New York and then 
transfer to California and get 
married." 

"Are you and Martha getting 
married?" 

"I don't know. We talked about 
it. Just have to see how things work 
out." 

"Pass me your lighter." I lit a 
cigarette and Danny did also. There 
was a silence while we smoked. Be- 
fore we had finished, Danny asked 
me my plans. 

"I think I'll write a novel if I keep 
publishing these stories. Probably 
go on to med school for four years. 
But that's so long. I'd like to get a 
good magazine job and correspond 
from France or Switzerland or some 
place like that." 

I stuck my cigarette into the snow 
and covered it with my foot. We 
rose and walked a bit farther along 
the cliff and got back to the cabin 
about an hour later. We took Kay 
and Martha skiing and ate a late 
lunch. 

In the evening Danny and Martha 
drove in a rented car to another 
resort for dinner. I stayed in the 
cabin and typed the rest of the story 
that I had been working on. The sun 
went down and when I finished it 
was about nine thirty. Danny and 
Martha had not returned and I 
guessed that Kay was asleep. I took 
a short walk and had a cigarette. 
Then I went in to check on Kay. 

I opened her door as quietly as I 
could. The blinds were closed and 
the fire was flickering dimly. Kay 
was asleep in her bed and the cover 
was kicked off her. She wore 
nothing but her underclothes. I felt 



a lonely heart leap down into my 
stomach and something tied a knot 
in my esophagus. I must have stood 
a long while looking at her peaceful 
tan body sleeping so beautifully. 
A cold breeze swept past me into 
the room and I crept over and 
placed some logs on the fire. Then I 
gently pulled the cover over her and 
began to leave. But I turned around 
again and kissed her on the fore- 
head. I hadn't intended to wake her, 
but as I rose her eyes came open 
and she looked up at me. She did 
not smile, nor did she frown. I had 
never seen a look like that before. 
Her eyes were sleepy. 

She whispered something that I 
could not hear and I leaned down 
to her. She kissed my ear and told 
me to get in bed with her. 

I sat down on the bed and kissed 
her and took off my boots. 

"Get undressed," she said. 

I stood up and took off my 
sweater and ski pants and slipped 
in bed beside her in my underwear. 
I kissed her and her leg moved 
across mine. She kissed my shoulder 
and laid her head on my chest. Her 
hand slid across my waist and I put 
my hand up and smoothed her long 
hair. 

I looked up at the ceiling and my 
hand rubbed her back and she 
moaned a soft breath and I knew 
she was asleep. 

I awoke and a yellow light was 
pushing in through the blinds. Kay 
had not moved. I slipped out from 
the bed and dressed and went to the 
cabin. Danny was sitting at the 
table drinking the wine and I sat 
with him and poured a glass full. 
We finished the bottle. Martha was 
asleep on the bed with the covers 
up to her shoulders. They were bare. 

Danny and I skied for a while and 
went to the lounge and telephoned 
Cressler. When we got back I went 
■ in and sat on the bed with Kay. I 
kissed her cheek and she woke and 
looked at me. She smiled. I kissed 
her mouth and shoulders and got up 
and put out the fire. Kay dressed 
and we went and ate in the lounge. 

That afternoon we left and flew 
back to the air strip. Cress was wait- 
ing for us. 

The sun was going down as I un- 
locked the door of my room. I put 
everything away and then I put the 
story in a manila envelope and took 
it to the post office. When I came 
back I wrote a letter and went to 
shower. I came back and smoked 
and played solitaire for an hour. 
Then I set my alarm and went to 
bed. 




"/ send you to Clemson and you turn out this trash? 



Winthiiop pIoMal and Industrial College 

OF SOXTTH C-A-HOLIKT-A. 

ROCK HILL, S. C. 



Pleasant and Heathfnl Location 
PURE WATER - 



Campus of thirty-eight and a half acres, unsurpassed Buildings and equip- 
ment main Building (Offices and Class Rooms), Dormitories, Infirmary — all 
joined by covered ways. Excellent sanitary sewerage. Ventilation perfect. 
Hot and cold baths on every floor. Only two students placed in one room. 
Single beds. 

Resident Woman Physician. Gymnasium with trained Instructor. Library 
of new Books (additions over a thousand volumes yearly). Able Faculty in 
all Departments. Religious life carefully guarded. 

43 Officers, Teachers anJ Assistails. 500 Stiients. 

Normal Course with Industrial Studies. Scientific Course with Industrial 
Studies. Literary Course with Industrial Studies. 

Graduates of the Normal Course will be granted, in addition to the degree, 
a Life License to teach in the Public Schools of the State. 

Shorter Normal Courses are offered leading to certificate (Life License to 
teach), and to the degree of L. I. 

SPECIAL COURSES: Stenography and Typewriting, Dress-making, 
Book-keeping. Either of these courses may be completed in one year, and is 
rewarded by a certificate of proficiency. 

Thorough instruction given in Cooking, Horticulture, Floriculture, Dairy- 
ing, Free Hand and Industrial Drawing, Designing, Photography, Reading 
and Physical Culture. Arrangements have been made to train Kindergartners. 
MUSIC: In this department instruction given in Piano, Organ, Sight 
Singing, Chorus Singing. 

SCHOLARSHIPS : Each county is given as many scholarships as it has 
members in the House of Representatives. A scholarship is worth $44 and 
free tuition, and must be won by competitive examination. 
Expenses for session of nine months: 

For Students paying Tuition $144 00 

For Students having Free Tuition 104 00 

For Scholarship students 60 00 

For Catalogue or further information, address, 

D. B. JOHNSON, Prbsident, 
Rock Hill, S. C. 



Reprinted from January 1903 Chronicle 



SPIRIT, AN INDIVIDUAL 
EXPRESSION 

continued from page 2 

of values developed out of a par- 
ticularly popular high school career 
and that these young men do need 
to be taught a lesson of values; but 
something within me screams that 
shaving heads and forcing yells on 
these freshmen is not the most ade- 
quate nor by any means the most 
mature answer to this problem. If 
Clemson was still a military institu- 
tion I would not so much as whisper 
a complaint of this system because 
harassment is an accepted military 
custom even in today's society. How- 
ever, I must emphatically say again: 
we are not a military institution and 
we are not forced to conform to a 
militant type of education! Are we 
excluding all possibilities of en- 
couraging a spark of individuality 
in a young freshman? With our 
present system, I often feel that we 
are. What confusion must filter 
through a freshman's mind about 
what a college education entails. 
Psychologically, are we helping to 
develop the best possible attitude 
about the pursuit of an education? 

Now to the idea of spirit, the 
breath of life, which is a most im- 
portant part of the discussion of our 
present rat system. Is this system 
really the best and most expedient 
way to produce esprit de corps in 
our student body? Of course here 
again there are conflicting views of 
what spirit is, just as there are con- 
flicting views on tradition, and 
again I am most in favor of spirit 
and have not the first argument 
against spirit, per se. I am con- 
cerned, however, about the all- 
encompassing meaning we at Clem- 
son have given the word spirit. Do 
the Tigers actually win more ball 
.games because the Freshmen are 
forced to stand and yell in the din- 
ing hall? Does this truly represent 
school spirit? There is a complaint 
that if the Freshmen aren't com- 
pelled to stand and yell in the din- 
ing hall they will not be able to 
contribute in a positive manner to 
the contests. What, I ask, are pep 
rallies for? If Freshmen hear us en- 
thusiastic upperclassmen displaying 
our love for school spirit at the first 
pep rally of the season, as most of 
us do, then they too will inherit the 
coherent spirit. With the I.Q. of most 
of the Freshmen entering Clemson 
now, I hardly think that learning 
the school cheers will be too great 

continued next page 



SPIRIT, AN INDIVIDUAL 
EXPRESSION 

continued from previous page 

a burden for any of them. Practice 
makes perfect, and organized cheer- 
leader led practice at pep rallies will 
certainly achieve the perfection- re- 
quired to give moral support to the 
Tigers. But school is far more than 
yelling at athletic contests. School 
spirit is an inward pride when we 
see a new classroom building, li- 
brary, or girl's dorm under construc- 
tion or when we in conversation con 
boast of a member of the Clemson 
faculty having recently been award- 
ed a Fulbright scholarship or of a 
recent graduate's successful en- 
deavors in the world of reality. 
School spirit is speaking to everyone 
on the way to class, the sincere 
congratulations extended to a fel- 
low student on his recently being 
elected to one of Clemson's hon- 
orary societies, or watching chil- 
dren's faces as they press their noses 
to car windows when they ride by 
our Homecoming displays. School 
spirit is the warm tingle inside as 
we wave our hands toward the Blue 
Ridge Mountains singing "O'er the 
mountains high," or seeing the 
proud expressions on the faces of 
our loved ones attending gradua- 
tion as the Dean calls our name to 
step forward and receive a sheep- 
skin that symbolizes years of work 
and waiting, or meeting a member 
of our graduating class by chance 
on the street many years following 
graduation and sharing together 
many fond memories. Do we really 
have to fear becoming a stereo- 
typed university, as many seem to 
fear, if these eager to learn Fresh- 
men see in our upperclassmen this 
genuine love for our school? 

Tradition and school spirit: in- 
tangible and inanimate objects that 
ore ours here at Clemson. Cant we 
realize that we are now a budding 
co-educational university offering 
the most varied educational oppor- 
tunities ever offered here? Con we 
not OS mature students realize that 
our major reason for being at Clem- 
son is to better our minds through 
education in a long-range attempt to 
better the environments in which we 
will all liVe, love, and die, and that 
the pursuit of this education is best 
gone about with an open mind? Not 
with a mind that is closed to prog- 
ress in any form if it dissolves some- 
thing that contributes not in the least 
to our learning process. 

I often ponder if next fall when 



Freshmen enter Clemson if their 
heads weren't shaved and if they 
wore the caps for only a couple of 
weeks and enthusiastically attended 
the pep rallies where they were 
taught the cheers by energetic up- 
perclassmen whether life wouldn't 
be just as livable as it was last fall 
and the ones preceding it, and when 
these Freshmen four years later walk 
across the stage and ore handed 
their diplomas, whether they too will 
not carry with them a love for this 



institution that we upperclassmen 
soon will carry as we graduate. So 
I conclude that school spirit is an 
individual experience, and if a 
young Freshman cannot contain 
himself any longer and rises in the 
dining hall, of his own accord, to 
release a form of this school spirit 
then let's congratulate his doing so, 
but let's not compel him to do so if 
that individual desire is not within 
him to express his love for this uni- 
versity in that particular manner. 




CHRONICU 




fe2>(y<tg 







6(2»3 sB§(j^<gi!,S[ffl8®caja(S, 



MARTIN'S 



DRUG 
STORE 



Distributor 
of the 
Clemson Ring 





On his 21st birthday a Carolina 
student asked his mother: "I think 
it's about time that you told me 
whether I'm a man or a woman." 

"Feel your face," she said. 

"Oh my goodness, Mother," he 
exclaimed as he followed her in- 
structions, "I'm a peach!" 



Darkness was settling over the 
picturesque Scottish highlands, and 
three young American college girls 
who were enjoying the view from 
the top of the creaking stagecoach 
began to shiver in the evening 
breeze. 

"I say!" called the driver to the 
passengers below, "is there a mack- 
intosh down there large enough to 
keep three young ladies warm?" 

"No," came the eager reply from 
inside. "But there's a MacPherson 
who's willing to try." 



Overheard in a bus: "I hear that 



your boyfriend graduates from law 
school in June. I suppose you'll be 
getting married then." 

"Oh, no, not right away. I want 
him to practice for a year first." 



A castaway on a deserted island 
pulled ashore a shipwrecked girl 
clinging to a barrel. 

"How long have you been on this 
island? " asked the girl. 

"Thirteen years," replied the man. 

"All alone? Then you're going to 
have something you haven't had for 
thirteen years," sighed the girl. 

"You mean there's beer in that 
barrel?" 



Then there was the Indian Chief 
who installed electric lights in the 
tribal latrine, thus becoming the first 
Indian to wire ahead for a reserva- 
tion. 



"How about joining me in my 
apartment for a nightcap?" he 
whispered to his date. 

"I'm afraid," said she, "that my 
awareness of your proclivities in the 
esoteric aspects of sexual behavior 
precludes you from any such con- 
frontation." 

"I don't get it," he replied. 

"Exactly," said she. 



"Porter, get me another glass of 
ice water." 

"Sorry, sir, if I take any more ice. 



that corpse in the baggage car isn't 
going to keep." 



Scene: Clemson Dorms 
Characters: Two roommates. 

"Got a pen I can borrow?" 

"Sure thing, ole lady." 

"Some paper, too." 

"Guess so." 

"Going by the mailbox on your 
way out?" 

"Yeah." 

"Wait till I finish this letter." 

"O.K." 

"Lend me a stamp?" 

"Yeah." 

"What's your girl's address 
again?" 



Ever notice the number of horse- 
flies around when we have steak 
in the dining hall? 



Where would people in hell tel 
someone to go? 



Marriage: Permanent institution 
for the temporarily insane. 



"Do you mean you murdered that 
poor old woman for a paltry three 
dollars? " asked the Judge. 

"Well," said the defendant, 
"three bucks here, three bucks there, 
it adds up." 



?k €@i\ll Mm^ 




32 




ME 



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San Angelo, Texas 





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The sun gets its enormous energy by fusing 
light hydrogen nuclei. General Electric has 
duplicated the process in its laboratories — 
and in its Progressland exhibit at the World's 
Fair — and is working to apply this limitless 
source of energy to the needs of man. 

It's a challenge like many others that take 
General Electric engineers, scientists, econ- 
omists and marketing specialists all over the 
world . . . and to the threshold of outer space. 

These men and women are helping to un- 
tangle the traffic snarls that could soon choke 
our cities . . . bringing electric power to un- 
derdeveloped countries . . . perfecting the fuel 
cells that will sustain our astronauts. 

These are projects in which college-edu- 
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FIVE PAGES ON SEBRING - THE 
FASTEST TRACTORS WE'VE EVER 
SEEN! • "HOW TO AAAASS A MASS" 
BY J. PAUL PETTY • PLOWAAATES 
REGURGITATED, CIRCA 1865 • 
"MOONSHADOWS" BY ERMEST 
HOMINGWAY • AND NO PHILOSO- 
PHY BY HEF (HE COULDN'T THINK 
OF ONE) 






MAR 4 1966 




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from fusion 
^•E goal 
orthe 
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That burst of golden light is a man-made 
sun created by General Electric scientists 
in their effort to harness a new source of 
power — nuclear fusion. 

The sun gets its enormous energy by fusing 
light hydrogen nuclei. General Electric has 
duplicated the process in its laboratories — 
and in its Progressland exhibit at the World's 
Fair — and is working to apply this limitless 
source of energy to the needs of man. 

It's a challenge like many others that take 
General Electric engineers, scientists, econ- 
omists and marketing specialists all over the 
world . . . and to the threshold of outer space. 

These men and women are helping to un- 
tangle the traffic snarls that could soon choke 
our cities . . . bringing electric power to un- 
derdeveloped countries . . . perfecting the fuel 
cells that will sustain our astronauts. 

These are projects in which college-edu- 
cated men and women at General Electric 
are putting their training to good use in meet- 
ing people's needs — today's and tomorrow's. 

Tigress Is Our Most Imporfanf T^ducf 

GENERAL^ELECTRIC 



PLOWBLADE 

Lots of people said they'd like to see 
more humor and satire in the Chronicle. 
We even had a letter to that effect. 
Somebody reminded us that humor and 
satire were both literary forms and that 
we really had neglected both areas. 
After pondering a while we decided 
that this was a legitimate complaint and 
that we really should do something 
about it. So we went around looking 
in corners and under logs for people 
who do this sorta thing because not 
just anybody can do good satire, and 
for a form for all this satire to take. 
Howie Fishbien thought we should do 
a sex magazine, Harold Folk a surfing 
mag and George Nelson voted for 
Progressive Farmer. After awhile we 
came upon the idea which resulted 
in the Plowboy you're reading and 
laffing at now we hope. 

After a lot of talking and stuff we 
decided to do a satire on both Playboy 
and on some of the existing conditions 
in South Carolina which seem to point 
to the fact that somebody thinks people 
in our fair state aren't capable of de- 
ciding what they should read. 

It's not all satire and humor though. 
We have our usual fiction section 
by our own local authors hidden under 
the guise of P/ayboy-type names. On 
page fifteen you'll find one of our best- 
ever pictorial features on Sebring. 



Geoff Groat sorted through some two 
hundred and fifty color slides he took 
last year to select the fine action shots. 
Our G.C., or rather Plowmate, is 
appropriately a local girl. Note she 
established a precedent by allowing 
our photographers to photograph her 
ccmpetely nude. We found our old 
tape measure too short to accurately 
measure the appropriate dimensions. 
Just take our word for the fact that 
she is indeed well proportioned. The 
cover, Vargggg, and Plowmates Re- 
gurgitated were done by one of those 
people we found hiding under a log, 
Norman Withers. Norman is the shop 



technician in the School of Architecture, 
a jack of all trades, and a professional- 
grade cartoonist. We used guys like 
Carl Floyd, Dennis Ryan and Rich 
Guerin for illustrations. And also under 
that log was often-censored and still 
frustrated Howie Fishbien who did most 
of the satirical copy work. Bill Anderson 
did a really terrif Fashion feature and 
some other stuff. And lots of other 
people helped. 

We'd like to know how you like 
this effort. Maybe we'll try to do a 
parody issue every Spring. And I'll have 
to fill up the rest of this page with 
photos. 




VOL. 5, NO. 3-AAAY, 1965 



P LOWBOY 



CONTENTS OF CLEMSON'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 




The CHRONICLE is an official publica- 
tion of Clemson University published 
about three times a year in September, 
January, and May. Adress all corres- 
pondence to the CHRONICLE, Box 2186, 
Clemson, South Carolina. Student sub- 
scriptions are paid for through student 
activities fees. Other subscription rates: 
U.S. and possessions SI. 00 per year; 
Canada and Pan American Union Coun- 
tries S2.00; other foreign countries $3.00. 
Entered as regular mail at Clemson, 
South Carolina (second class permit no 
longer pending thanks to South Carolina's 
seniority in the powerful post office com- 
mittee). The editors assume no res- 
ponsibility for the return of material, 
you have to come and get it. The 
opinions expressed do not necessarily 
coincide with those of the student body, 
the faculty, the alumni, or the adminis- 
tration. Our national advertising repre- 
sentative is College Magazines, Incorpo- 
rated, 11 West 42nd Street, New York 
36, New York. Member: Associated Col- 
legiate Press. Printed by offset in Texas. 
The editor accepts responsibility for all 
opinions in the world with the excep- 
tion of those expressed by Howie 
Fishbein. 

In the first place, I met a blonde, not 
bad, o little young maybe, but not bad. 
In the second place, I met a brunette 
and two more blondes. In the third place 
—well, the third place is one of those 
places I'd rather keep to myself. You 
orobably wouldn't hove liked it any- 

'y. No, 

illy, to 



PLOWBLADE 




1 


DEAR PLOWBOY 




4 


PLOWBOY AFTER HOURS 




5 


PLOWBOY ADVISOR 




9 


INTERNATIONAL DATE BOOK-travel 


PATRICK CHASTE 


10 


MOON SHADOWS-fiction 


ERMEST HOMINGWAY 


13 


PLOWBOY VISITS SEBRING-article 


KEN DIRTY 


15 


MASH RAKERS-fiction 


IAN PHLEGMING 


21 


PLOWMATE 




?3 


FASHION-attire 




27 



AVERY GOSNELL WAS A COOL GUY-ribald classic 31 

HOW TO AMASS A MASS-money J. PAUL PETTY 33 

PLOWMATES REGURGITATED-girls 35 



DAIL DIXON— editor-worrier 

MARK MILLBOURN-words over two syllables 

LYDIA THREATT— money counter 
HOWIE FISHBEIN-smut editor BILL ANDERSON Ill-feature editor 

GEOFF GROAT— photo editor ROB BRYAN-art director 

JOHN McCARTER-story teller AHSLEY PAULK-60 wds. per min. 

TED KING-ad manager HARRY TOWNSEND-sieeper 

DR. MARK STEADMAN-scopegoct ALPHA PHI OMEGA-circulotion 

NORMAN WITHERS, RICHARD GUERIN, CARL FLOYD, DENNIS RYAN, artists, 
GENE RUDISILL, DON CHAPEL, DON GOLIGHTLY, layout, GEORGE NELSON, 
muzak, HAROLD FOLK, skateboard editor, MARION IVEY, 45 words per 
minute, FRANK PEARCE, LARRY JOE PAYNE, borrowed, REH ROWLEY, GAR- 
LAND GOODEN, roadrunner about, FRED BUSCH, we don't even remember 
anymore. 





E N G T H 



SYMBOr OF STRENGTH 






BILL SMITH 

654-4726 

Auburn '62 



BOB POOLE 
654-4824 



PAUL OELAND 
Clemson '64 




Our "College Graduate Plan/' especially tailored for the college 
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working years. 



Student Representatives 

Henry Milam 
Carey Miller 



Ben Step 
Luther Waters 



Tommy Troublefield 
Bob Glover 



I 



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DEAR PLOWBOY 



ADDRESS OF PLOWBOY MAGAZINE 
BOX 2186, CLEMSON, S. C. 



VIVA VARGAS 

Three cheers for your excellent 
magazine for having the guts to 
publish the Vargas drawing in 
your March issue. 

M. L. King 

You have a disgusting, left- 
wing, communist infiltrated, and 
dirty-minded magazine, not to 
mention that nigger-loving Vargas 
and his drawing in your March 
mag. Cancel my subscription im- 
mediately. 

Gov. Wallace 



SEX EDUCATION 

The Board of Education in South 
Carolina is having a great deal 
of trouble with dropouts, some of 
which are due to pregnancies. 
While the board is concerned with 
the problem, it has done little to 
correct the sometimes obvious 
problem that seems to pop up peri- 
odically. The only solution to this 
problem of sexual ignorance is to 
provide sensible courses in sex 
education at the high school and 
college level. We must show the 
younger generation that sex itself 
is not "dirty"; but it is the attitude 



towards sex that makes it dirty. 
Sex can be fun, and I might add, 
profitable. 

Bobby Baker 

Pickens, South Carolina 

PIG PARTY 

In answer to that South Caro- 
lina "Gentleman" expressing his 
opinion that "pig parties" are 
beneficial to society because 
they give otherwise dateless girls 
a chance to get out and have a 
good time: I agree with him com- 
pletely. 

Betty Coed 

FROM THE PARENTS 

Please cancel the subscription 
for Plowboy made by my son Hen- 
ry. What kind of filth are you try- 
ing to pawn off on innocent, 
chaste, and virtuous children. I 
don't want this kind of crap in my 
house! 

Mrs. Henry Miller 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I'm willing to bet that I'm the 

first guy who ever robbed the 4H 

Club treasury to get enough 

money for a Plowboy subscription. 

Hee, hee! , , 

(name withheld) 

(Howard Fishbein) 




Q 



JUDGE 
KELLERS 

EVERYTHING FOR 
THE PLOWBOY 



PLOWBOY AFTER HOURS 




I he hawgs have been slopped; 
the day's plowing has ceased, and 
the rusty plow sits in the freshly turned 
earth; the mule has been bedded down 
for the night; over in the chicken house 
the chickens have gone to roost; night 
has set in on our little farm and the 
clay's work is over. This, then, is the 
Plowboy after hours. A tall, lanky 
figure dressed in a freshly pressed 
pair of washed and worn overalls 
comes out of the house and gets in 
his pickup with the chopped and 
channeled rear bumper, the tied-on 
tags, the high-speed door handles, the 
Hudson tail lights, and the Henry J. 
hubs. Our clod-about-town flicks his 
cigarette onto the ground and grinds 
it out with the left heel of his old army 
combat boots, spits, kicks hell out of 
the lazy hound lying on the running 
board, slides onto the front seat, guns 
the motor three times, and releases 
the clutch on the fourth rev. The truck 
leaps forward into the night and back- 
fires, sputters, and stalls. Again our 
clod-about-town guns the engine three 
times, letting the clutch fly back on the 
fourth rev, feels the back baldheaded 
racing tires resist the force of gravity 
and propel him forward. A smile begins 
to spread across his weather-beaten 
face as he looks to see how much 
rubber he got. The clod flicks on the 
radio, and tunes in WCKY because it 
is Saturday night and Grand Ole Opery 
time. Our Plowboy may be on his 
way to Barnway to see one of the big 
musical comedies or he may be going 
to see some art films (male only, 
please) or he may be on his way to 
the crossroads store to sit and sip an 
RC and tallf about the latest literary 
trends among sixth grade grammar 
school drop-outs. Or he may be on his 
way to his Plowmate's house to enjoy 
a quiet evening listening to the latest 
Plowtrack recordings. But whatever he 
does, you can bet that he'll be home 
in time to help with the dawn chores. 



BOOKS 

Third Shift Affair by B.O. 

Linthead is the new novel which has 
been acclaimed by third grade critics 
to be the most controversial love story 
released since the advent of the 25- 
cent paperback. This stark book tells 
of the illicit love affair of a first shift 
sweeper and his third shift loom fixer 
mistress, nymphomanic wife of the sec- 
ond shift weaver. The affair is only 
terminated when the sweeper enrolls 
in a high school correspondence course 
to get his diploma at home, finally 
graduates, gets on welfare, and falls 
in love with the woman sent by the 
Poverty Corps to get him a job. 

If you were one of the lucky ones 
ihat never got beyond the third grade, 
then you will enjoy Simple Simon's new 
novel, See Spot Run. The novel is writ- 
ten in verse and is about a boy, Dick, 
who chases a girl, Jane, and dog, Spot. 
This story ends with Dick being exe- 
cuted. 

How / Made a Million Dollars 
Through Farm Subsidy and Welfare 
is the provocative title of the new 
informative book by R.C. (Rocking 
Chair) Jones. Mr. Jones describes how 
he spent his winters in Florida while 
getting a welfare check mailed to him 
each month and how he spent summers 
in the mountains while getting a farm 
subsidy check for the cotton and 
tobacco he didn't plant. 

MOVIES 

Making its fifth rerun on the Late- 
late Show tonight, will be a suspense- 
ful mystery of how Ajax overcomes the 
white tornado. The Marlboro man dis- 
covers that he has contracted lung 
cancer, and goes out to commit suicide 
but is talked out of it by one of the 
"I'd rather fight than switch" girls 
who in turn convinces the Marlboro 
man to come up to her apartment. 
After seducing the lovely young maiden, 
the Malboro man climbs into her iron 
lung and fries a Toryenton. Does she 
. . . or doesn't she have cavities? 
You'll see a small child toy with danger 
as he refuses to brush three times 



daily. But the kid is right, why the hell 
should he brush three times when he 
only gets one meal a day? Meanwhile, 
the Marlboro man has discovered that 
he doesn't have to give up smoking 
because he can save the coupons on 
the back of Sir Walter Rawlegs and 
get him an iron lung. Thus, he and the 
Toryenton girl live happily ever after 
in their twin iron lungs. 

THEATER 

The title of Billy Graham Cracker's 
new play, a musical comedy which 
opens on Barnway, is SEX AND SIN, 
on hilarious presentation of a Christian 
Farce. It stars the fiery young Coral 
Robertson in the role of the hell-fire 
and brimstone snake charmer-faith 
healer. You'll roll as you see Coral 
heal an eighty year old wheel chair 
victim who has been confined to his 
super-duper overdrive wheel chair for 
fifty years. But after touching the snake 
held by Robertson, the old man (played 
by Grandpa Ogg) gets up and walks 
ten steps before falling and breaking 
his neck. 

RECORDINGS 

OUTHOUSE MELODIES (Willie Cres- 
cent-Moon— Outback Recordings) is the 
title of the new plowtrack that was 
recorded live at USC. Need we say 
any more about this weird record? 

CHICKEN HOUSE (Red Hen, Yolk- 
ways Recordings), is a beautiful musical 
recorded after Red Hen laid her first 
egg. Hear such beautiful melodies as: 
Eggodus, Egg O My Heart, I'm For- 
ever Laying Eggs, and many more. 

ART 

Art critics are raving about the new 
painting called "Chicken Scratchins" 
now on display at the crossroads hard- 
ware store. Grandpa Rumbrondt got 
his old hen and her new brood of baby 
chicks together and let them scratch 
around on his canvas splattered with 
ten different colors of oils. The painting 
will be on display at Doc's til the end 
of the week, at which time it will be 
hung on the back of the county garbage 
truck. 




We: As all of the world's greatest philosophers, from Plato to Hefner, have said, 
the mark of a man is his clothes. And, as we all know, the most important piece 
of clothing is the sock. Some people think that SUITS are the most important, but 
they're wrong. For without socks, what could man blow his nose on when he is 
out of handkerchiefs? From 4.50. 

The BOON-LOON "BILL COLLECTOR" BY ESQUIRT 




Be the first on your apartment block to own 
real honest-to-Sracious 
Buy twenty or thirty of them and pin them 
all over your coat and pants and soclts. 
And your hat, too. And your cape and your 
spats. You'll be so popular the girls 
will simply trample you to death. We 
Guarantee it. Completely to death. 



Handsomely gift boxed. 

$10 ppd. 

Shall we enclose a get well card in your 

Send check or money order to: 




hardly 
stand 
it. 
They're 



y 

have 

to 

GREASE 

THE 

ANKLES! 



All this week's latest styles available 

to 118.00. Hurry before fat legs come back 

For that REAL slim look, paint your legs, 



MR. KooL 



1 




WHAT SORT OF KID READS PLOWBOY? 

A young plowboy ai that time in his life when Yak milk and tricycles have become necessary for admittance to 
our exclusive Plowboy Clubs. 

Y'all advertisers out there better take account of the fact that our readers command at least 1 V 37ths of our nation's 
rutabaga crop, they got money. 

It's a fact, our readers drink more Yak milk than 'most everybody else. Knobby wheel tricycle ownership among 
Plowboy readers is 50 times that of the national average. So oil y'all should get them ol' ads into our office— cause we 
need the money; the landlord has given us our eviction notice. (Source: Plowboy Almanac of 1865 by Gum) 

|aDVERTISING OFFICES: CLEMSON « CLEMSON • CLEMSOn| 



BY JACKSON 




"Yeah, my 
girl buys 
all her 
clothes at 
Genies." 



GENIE 
SHOPPE 

CLEMSON 




TEXAS RANGER 



THE PLOWBOY ADVISOR 



I recently attended a social affair 
wearing just a white sheet and a pair 
of Weejuns. A best pal of mine told 
me I had committed a gauche faux pas. 
Did I really? G. W., Atlanta, Georgia. 

It depends. What was the Grand 
Dragon wearing? 



My girl friend (we ore both students 
at a southern university) is always tell- 
ing me that "she's not that kind of 
girl" whenever we find ourselves in 
fairly intimate situations. Is there any 
way I can convince her to become "that 
kind of girl?" You know, something 
soft and mushy I could whisper in her 
ear?-M.D.-Columbia, S. C. 

Try whispering "stewed okra," or 
some other equally sexy rhetoric in her 
ear. If she doesn't come around after 
hearing that, we suggest you run like 
hell, because she'll probably start 
throwing up all over the place. 



I just received a topless bathing suit 
from my boy friend as a birthday gift. 
Do you think he has something in 
mind? A. E., Myrtle Beach, South Caro- 



lina. 



Umm, he probably has a couple of 
things in mind. 



Living on a farm, I hove found it 
very difficult to entice my city-dwelling 
honey to spend some time, after a night 
on the town, at my place for a night- 
cap or two. I hove pleaded, almost to 
the point of getting down on my 
knees, but it's always to no avail. How 
about a few tips on how I could remedy 
my sorrowful plight?— L.T., Big Creek, 
South Carolina. 

Oh for shame, for shame. You have 
an evil mind, but so do we. Try the 
following lines of enticement on your 
little wench— "Come on out to my pad 
tonight honey, and I'll show you my 
collection of pornographic pictures" or 
"Come onna my house, my house, 
I'ma gonna give you apple ana pie" 
or as a last resort, try "look, we're 
going to my pod tonight." 



Is it proper to wear tennis sneakers 
with an ascot? M.R., Clemson, South 
Carolina. 

Obviously you're cool man, and there 
ore definite occasions when tennis 
sneakers and an ascot are the proper 
attire. Feel perfectly at home when 
wearing them at your old man's fu- 
neral, at your girl 'riend's public trial, 
even at a briss. But at most other times 
a pair of jockey shorts should be worn 
along with your ascot and tennis 
sneakers. 

(By Howie Fishbein) 



MVMOO 



... A Most 
Provocative Perfume! 




the best from 
the Left bank of 
Lake Seneca 

Purse size S3.00 
the rest is awfully 
expensive 



PLOWBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATE BOOK 

BY PATRICK CHASTE 



To avoid large throngs of fussy tourists, the last word 
in off season opulence and unique holstery is the Pixie Hotel 
in nearby Greenville, S.C. Certainly the continental cuisine, 
along with many tangy native dishes make this abode man- 
datory for the economic and fun-loving tourist. 

Conveniently situated in downtown Greenville, a single 
room (all have double beds) in this luxurious lodging may 
be obtained for as little as $3.50. 

The plushly decorated lobby is frequently a center of activ- 
ity as the popular hostel is often frequented by lawyers, 
businessmen, and an occasional Clemson student. In the 
evenings, a floor show may begin in the lobby, the only 
cover charge being a contribution to the "kitty." Nifty bar- 
gains may be obtained from the hotel's gift shop if you 
gain the salesgirl's attention properly. 

It is a carefully contrived illusion of a dwelling capable 
of cashing in on L.B.J.'s poverty program— but don't let the 
outward appearance of the Pixie Hotel fool you. Unpre- 
tentious hotels are full of surprises. So for the sheer 
hell of it, as well as the economic $3.50 per room attrac- 
tion, why not spend an evening or week end in luxury at 
the Pixie? Prepare to be pampered. 

A springtime jaunt to the neighboring village of Anderson, 
S.C. is indeed a rewarding side trip well worth the time and 
effort. We recommend a Saturday evening or Sunday after- 
noon in this quaint village to spend at the famous El Morado 
parking lot adjacent to the renewed El Morado restaurant. 
For only here can be found S.C.'s answer to Jimmy Clark, Ster- 
ling Moss, Graham Hill, and the Grand Prix circuit. You'll see 
"greasers" in action as they "intellectually" and profanely 
discuss (sometimes violently and fatally) the latest styles in 
racing cushions, loud mufflers, racing stripes, and dice to 
hang from their rearview mirrors. We recommend that you 



park safely off the track and observe the parade of hot 
rods, rednecks, and lint-heads who proudly tour by. Also a 
Utopia for Royal Crown hairdressing and petroleum jelly 
manufacturers, the racers proudly display their coiffures. 

If you're a careful observer and watch closely, you may 
see a "greaser" shoot a bird to another car with racing 
cushions. Then the excitement begins. The other car guns 
his engine and mad pursuit begins: screaming tires and pro- 
fanity fill the parking lot as half-moon taps light up the area 
with sparks flying. Although this may never equal Sebring in 
the high speed category, an afternoon at the El Morado 
promises to be the wildest you've witnessed. j 

As a point of pertinent interest to the offbeat tourist class 
who hunger to visit Unusual places, P/owboy strongly recom- 
mends the World's most Unusual niche of all. Bob Jones Uni- 
versity, in Greenville. Space could not permit an appropriate j 
description, discussion, or discrimination against this uncom- 
mon conglomeration of individuals. But for an evening of 
excitement, load up with a case of booze, plenty of cigar- 
ettes, put on a KKK uniform, play a Hot Nuts album over the 
loudspeaker of your car, take along a few Plowboys, get 
half-lit, and go apply for admission. Your evening will be oc- 
cupied. However, you may decide to duck the throngs in 
luxury for an evening jaunt to sample the fine dining of , 
Bolton's (sometimes called Ralph's) restaurant. Located in 
Tigertown, Bolton's provides excellent dining for you and your 
date. An intellectual atmosphere is quickly created nightly 
by the college crowd with the assistance of Pabst Blue Ribbon 
Brewing Company. The friendly company and companionship 
will impress your date. (Unless some get too friendly and too 
compassionate and "snake" your date) Anyway, Clemson 
spirit(s) always prevails, and Bolton's remains one of the 
few true gatherings of the collegiate set during finals. 

(By Bill Anderson III) 



10 




A ^ety^cL' 



SCRIPTS AND PRANKS 



^^•^.^ 



[^ 



















>.J>? 



?1f^' 



V CARL FLOYD III 




-:rj:. 



he dining room was lit dimly by 
"the little lamps suspended from the wall 
just above the table top so as not to 
shine in the face. He was sitting in a 
corner table near the band, drinking 
his coffee and waiting for his order to 
arrive. When Sandy came in he didn't 
think she saw him, but she headed for 
his table and with her polite little "May 
I sit down?", sat down. 

"Hi, Bernie," she began with that 
little-girl voice and her innocent baby 
expression and blue eyes. 

"Hello," he smiled, rising to the oc- 
casion. "You look nice tonight. Some- 
thing up?" 

"Thank you. You're sweet." drawling 
out the "sweet" as if she were talking to 
a puppy. "No, nothing special." 

"Are you going up to the fourth trail 
tomorrow with the rest of our party? I 
think you'd enjoy yourself." 

"No. Jack and I are crossing the 
border into Italy to buy some wine." 

"Oh." A stump hod been struck 
very early in the conversation. They 
both realized something had happened, 
but he alone understood what it was, 
she being innocent of his knowjedge. 

Bernie dropped the whole line of 
questioning. It had gotten him abso- 
lutely nowhere. He let her lead. the con- 
versation along until dinner was over 
and he was smoking his cigarertte. 

"I hate the thought of having to go 
back to the room with nothing to do. 
I've had such a good time with you, 
Bernie." 

He felt as if she had meant what she 
said. But he didn't see how she could 
have. 

"I want to go for a walk." 

"Well, why don't you?" 

"I don't have anyone to go with 
me." He had known it was coming and 
he knew what was about to happen 
as soon as he said the expected words. 



MOON SHADOWS 



p/owboy fiction by 
ERMEST HOMINGWAY 



13 



MOONSHADOWS 

confinued from page 13 
He knew, and he did it just to have his 
knowledge confirmed. 

"I'll go with you." he said, expectant. 

"It's not the same, Bernie." There it 
was: what they were both waiting for. 
She had set him up, and he hod walked 
willfully into it. The manner she had 
said it in was strange, and he couldn't 
tell whether she was saying something 
funny in a serious way, or something 
serious in a funny way. Anyway, it 
meant what it meant. There was now a 
line drawn between them. He could 
take a walk with her now. He could 
make love to her and even sleep with 
her, but it would "never be the same." 

And so he ended up walking through 
the soft snow with her, her right arm 
crooked in his left, his hands in the 
pockets of his ski jacket. They walked 
up the slope from the lodge, making 
their own winding path among the 
silent pine trees. The snow was blue in 
the moon-shadows of the black trees 
and it seemed as if they were walking 
among the great ebony pillars of some 
crystal night palace. The pale yellow 
globe of the moon hung luminously 
among the pine branches, with its fhild, 
the evening star close at hand. They 
reached the top of a ridge and began 
to follow it until it spread out into a 
smooth terrace, untouched by human 
print, hanging over the jeweled valley 
of the human happiness below, still as 
a cathedral. 

The stillness tugged ct Sandy, and, in 
her girlish way, she tried to destroy it, 
feeling through or in it some impending 
emotion which she didn't want to en- 
counter. She took her arm from Bernie's 
and stooped to pick some of the snow, 
giggling lightly as she packed it. 
Bernie knew full well what she was 
doing, and he did not want to stop 
her. He stood as she pelted him with 
snow, lightly on the chest and legs. 

"C'mon, Bernie. Play with me. Be a 
sport." The evasion of the inevitable, 
the unyielding feeling within each of 
them. Sandy, because she was afraid 
of it, Bernie, because he knew she was 
afraid of it and didn't want to frighten 
her. And there they were throwing snow 
at each other, enjoying it in a childish 
way, and yet knowing within them- 
selves that it could not hold back the 
... the certain time, yes, that was it. 
The time that would come someday, 
somewhere, no matter how generally 
they spoke, how friend-to-friend-like 
they might seem . . . 

Bernie threw, lightly, as Sandy 
raised her head from looking at the 
snow. It struck her face and she jumped 



up. Bernie went to her on impulse and 
put his arms around her back, and 
she, her hands to her face, allowed 
her head to fall on his shoulder. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yes. That's a silly question to ask. 
You can't hurt me." 

Her still vigilant yet feeble attempts 
at humor. 

"What will Jack say?" he goaded 
softly, not wanting to hurt her, but to 
bring it out into the open. "Here we 
are alone on the hill and I've got my 
arms around you and you've got your 
head on my shoulder. What will he 
think?" 

"He probably wouldn't think any- 
thing. Even if he knew. He's been 
getting mad at me lately." 

"You mean he doesn't love you?" 

"No." 

Bernie looked down at her and 
when she was conscious of his looking, 
she raised her head to see his face. He 
kissed her mouth and her eyes and her 
cheeks and put his chin against her 
hair. She allowed herself to be held, 
her eyes closed, her hands against his 
chest. She almost wanted it to go on, 
she almost wanted to kiss him -again 
and put her arms around him and love 
him. , 

Bernie realized the uselessness of it 
and drew away. 

"Why don't you let me love you?" 
he asked honestly and without emo- 
tion, wanting only to know the answer, 
the fault in his body or mind that was 
the cause of his failure. 

"Oh, Bernie, please don't ask me 
that. It just isn't the same." 

He had fallen again, this time in- 
nocently. Or had he? He didn't think 
that it was the same as before, al- 
though she still meant it. The line was 
still there between them, unbroken, 
untrespassed, unviolated. Only at- 
tacked by a little tenderness. 

Bernie was embarrassed now. He 
didn't know why except that he felt de- 
feated . . . defeated by an opponent 
that didn't even have to be present, 
didn't even hove to compete, to feel, 
to love as he did. The unfairness of the 
contest showed him now helpless he 
was in the struggle, and the weakness 
realized in himself he now thought was 
showing through and he was em- 
barrassed by it. 

"Yeah, I see." Bernie began to flush, 
and he turned to walk away. 

"Aren't you going to walk me back?" 

Bernie faced her. The moonlight was 
on her face, and his was in the sha- 
dow. He was serious by his voice, she 
by her expression. 

"What do you want from me?" Ber- 



nie asked earnestly. He knew he 
shouldn't, he knew he was weakening 
himself before her, showing his hurt 
to her so that she could triumph over 
him and relish his defeat. "Do you en- 
joy hurting people like me? Do you 
think it's funny to twist up poor dumb 
fools and throw their lives in the gar- 
bage con? I hope you've gotten a 
good laugh out of me. I didn't like the 
ride, but I stayed on as long as I could 
because I wanted you. Go home and 
laugh at your human joke. Tell Jack 
and all your other friends and you can 
all hove a good laugh. But for God's 
sake don't try to carry it out any far- 
ther. I'm fed up and I've finally got the 
guts to face the fact. Why don't you 
get out of my sight?" 

She stood fixed for a moment, only 
just realizing the essence of the emotion 
that was raging like a fire within Ber- 
nie's mind. Realizing the power in her- 
self that she had not meant to release, 
not even meant to be seen in her out- 
ward self. 

Bernie was walking off through the 
woods now, a black figure on the blue- 
tinted carpet on the forest floor. She 
began to run after him, slipping down 
in the snow and getting up again, she 
ran after him telling him things that 
she couldn't understand, but that 
flowed from her mouth and mind like 
music from a phonograph. She caught 
his arm and jerked him and he turned 
to face her. She was out of breath and 
the eloquence had been cut off in her 
burning throat. The only thing that 
whispered past was "I'm sorry ... I 
didn't know . . ." 

Bernie didn't want to hurt her any- 
more, and he knew that he had really 
hurt her, both in revealing his own 
feelings and in revealing to her what 
she was doing. But the revenge drive 
in his mind could not rest contented 
without one last blow. 

"You're a bitch, Sandy." 

The words cut the stillness and rang 
softly against the trees and drifted 
about in the air among the branches 
and was gone with a breeze. She 
looked at him and a sob filled her 
throat. She bent her head and fell 
against a tree for support. 

"Oh, Bernie." she whimpered. "Oh, 
Bernie, not you . . . not you too." 

Bernie knew that he had gone too 
far. He reached out and touched her 
shoulder and she pulled away from his 
fingers. He reached out with both 
hands and took her shoulders and 
pulled her to him. She was stiff in his 
arms, tears running onto his jacket and 
the steam from their breath rising softly, 
continued on page 32 



PLOWBOY VISITS SEBRING 



ARTICLE BY KEN DIRTY 




I his is the "big one": the annual March pilgrimage to the Florida sun of American and European racing aficionados. 
This is America's first and oldest internationally sanctioned auto racing circuit. This is the "Garden of Eden" for sports 
car fans who annually hail the coming of Spring simultaneously with the beginning of the week's activities at Sebring. 

Sebring, Florida, population about nine thousand, is located on the banks of Lake Jackson in central Florida. The town 
itself is surrounded by orange groves and endless mile on mile of scrub palmetto and swamp holes. For that one week a 
year, when the population swells to well over ninety thousand, and the peaceful air is shattered with the rasp and snarl 
of the world's finest built sports racing machines, it is the most exciting place on earth to be. It is a real fiesta of color, 
sports and speed, complete with carnival and side shows. In recent years small car racing and grand prix motorcycle rac- 



MRTINUR< 




Keek aims his A.C. Cobra through turn number one at approximately 115 miles per hour. 



i6 



ing have been added to keep interest going between mornin 
race, and have become very popular with sports car buffs. 

Sebring is a way of life for a day or a whole week. The s 
ing in front of the other 75,000 fans. Here any device en 
since those twelve hours can be as grueling on the spectator a 
comfortable occur in endless variety. It is a true show of spo 

The race itself begins at 10:00 a.m. as the drivers run ac 
disappearing in the first turn of the 5.28 mile flat track is th 
sued by the voracious pack, snarling at his heels and push 
and dropouts, the race settles itself to a more calm and delib 
turns and complete for over one hundred shifting actions the 
and nerves. The machines must perform all of the respons 
for over half the cars being retired behind the pit wall befo 
dangerous, but the pace slows little as the drivers and teams 
hour event has been won by the margin of a few seconds. Th 
"the circle" for pats on the back, garlands, kisses from a hund 
victors belong that big trophy and champagne. 



g and night practices. These can be as exciting as the big 

pectator loses all inhibitions about sleeping, eating, or drink- 
abling the spectator to get a better look is fair game, and 
s they are on the machines and drivers, the means for being 
rtsmanship for both driver and spectator, 
ross the track to start their cars. The real excitement, after 
e sound of the lead cor coming down the back straight, pur- 
ing the pace faster and faster. After the original sorting out 
erate pace. As the driver must maneuver some fifteen major 
entire affair becomes a professional gome of skill, stamina, 
es with lightning-quick precision, a fact which often accounts 
re the afternoon is half over. As night falls, driving becomes 
jockey for their final bids in early winning: many a twelve 
e final flag is dropped at 10:00 p.m. and the victor reports to 
red various and sundry beauty queens and best of all— to the 




A prototype factory sponsored two liter Porsche driven by Germany's Barth and Italy's Abate. 

17 





Nondurant accelerates his 
factory Cobra between the 
hairpin and Webster turns. 



LeMans-type Porsche 2000 G.S.'s play 
tag through Webster turns. Linge, in 
42, is set up well for turn while Jen- 
nings (43) is a bit off his line. 



Ginther, in a Ferrari Ber- 
linetta, screams down the 
pit straight. 





Buzzeta in number 42 LeMans Porsche 
passes Shaw's Cobra on pit straight. 







Shorpe approaches the esses in privately 
owned Porsche 904. 



EXCLUSIVE PLOWBOY PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY GEOFF GROAT 



19 




MASH RAKERS 

PLOWBOY FICTION BY IAN PHLEGMING 



Dunelin XXL tires squalled as they 
fought to hold the Titian Red Aso-Ri- 
voltin on the curve. As the road 
straightened, the fuel-injected Muskette 
engine gave the triple scream of on 
expertly executed gear change, and the 
pantherish motorcar leaped past a more 
sedately driven motor vehicle. 

J. Melbourne Bloomington LV, K.C.U. 
B.R., esq., British Secret Service agent 
00-0, depressed the intercom switch 
on the center armrest and spoke to his 
chauffeur. 



"She was going bloody fast, eh 
what?" 

The reply in Bragi's characteristic ac- 
cent came quickly: "That she was, sir, 
that she was. Shall I catch her, sir?" 

"No, when she passed I saw that 
she was wearing a Glenkirken plaid 
scarf with a striped Chauvigne eve- 
ning parka. I would rather not know 
any female who will wear such an 
abominable combination." 

"Very well, sir. Over and out." 



J. Melbourne Bloomington IV, K.C.U. 
B.R., Esq., better known to his fellows 
as J. M., leaned back against the Ly- 
dean leather covered seat of his grosser 
Hummelste Damenez 600 limousine and 
ran over the events that had led up to 
his present visit to the American co- 
lonies. The WAXWING affair had been 
handled brilliantly, as was normal, by 
himself after Q2 station had bungled 
the preliminaries and he had then spent 
his customary fortnight vacation at 
Continued on pg. 22 



AAASH RAKERS 

continued from previous page 

Cochon. Upon his return to London, 
O.M.A. had called him into the office 
before J.M could contact any of the 
beautiful females that threw them- 
selves at him at every opportunity. 

When J. M. had walked into O. M. 
A.'s office on that typically foggy, gray 
London day, he had realized almost at 
once that something of paramount im- 
portance to the Service (sound of dis- 
tant trumpets) was on the Chief's mind. 
The ring finger of the Chief's left hand 
was tapping on the Mayan jade cigar 
box presented to him by a grateful 
Central American dictator. 

"Something of paramount impor- 
tance to the Service (sound of distant 
trumpets) is on my mind, J.M." 

"Yes sir, I'm ready to listen." 

"Tomorrow is the annual cricket 
match with the Yard and Harrington, 
our googlie bowler, has sprained his 
pinkie. Do you still have the control 
you showed in the match of '61?" 

"Yes sir, it's not a skill one easily 
loses. We had a top-notch instructor at 
Lordscrag and I think he would be 
proud if he knew how well he had 
taught me." 

"Good, that's settled." 

"Will that be all sir?" 

"Yes . . . No, wait a minute, I nearly 
let it slip my mind. It seems that Her 
Majesty's Customs has recently confis- 
cated some excretious alcoholic spirits 
being smuggled in from the United 
States. The available evidence points to 
a rather extensive operation that has 
been bringing this liquor into England 
for some time. In the U. S., it is known 
rather quaintly as "Moonshine" and is 
of an extremely potent nature, 150 
proof not being uncommon. The Gov- 
ernment naturally wants us to stop the 
traffic, as it is cutting into the sale of 
domestic liquors, also some seem to 
think it's a Red plot to undermine Bri- 
tain's moral fiber. I've called an expert 
in to give you a briefing on the sub- 
ject. Miss Sterlingfarthing, would you 
please send Major Smythe-Hastings in." 

The nganga inlaid door swung open 
on oiless hinges. J. M. rose from his 
chair as an Alec Guiness major strode 
in rapping a swagger stick against his 
shorts with one hand and carrying a 
large attache case in the other. 

Major Smythe-Hastings, this is Com- 



mander J. Melbourne Bloomington IV, 
K.C.U.B.R., Lordscrag '37." 

The two men touched hands per- 
functorily and seated themselves before 
O.M.A.'s desk. J. M. had taken an in- 
stant dislike to the major: the thought, 
that anyone who would remain in the 
Armed Service during peacetime was a 
complete and utter ass, unable to suc- 
ceed in private life. 

"Are you ready to give the Comman- 
der his briefing. Major?" 

"The army is always ready sir. 'Be 
prepared' is our motto. Now, if I may 
clear a corner of your desk for my 
case?" 

J. M.'s aversion changed to the re- 
spect he always felt for a real expert in 
any field as the major began his lec- 
ture on the origins and nature of the 
native Southern United States liquor 
known as moonshine. When the major 
opened his attache case and revealed 
several small square jars containing 
clear liquids, J. M. leaned forward with 
anticipation. 

"Now we have here the samples of 
moonshine that I obtained on a collect- 
ing expedition to the southern moun- 
tains of America," the major said as he 
presented one of the jars to J. M. "My 
trained palate is able to distinguish 
the various types, but it won't be neces- 
sary for you. Commander to attain this 
level. You should, however, be able to 
recognize the finer varieties. The bottle 
in your hand contains Barf 6. Barion 
'64 of Barton's Cove, North Carolina. 
If you would be so kind as to try it. 
Commander." 

The clear liquid seemed innocuous 
enough so J. M. took a small sip. For 
an instant there was only an oily taste 
on his tongue, then a dragon appeared 
in his esophagus and began to burn 
and claw its way toward his stomach. 
J. M.'s eyes rolled until only the whites 
were showing, his tongue, now a pe- 
culiar purple, protruded as he at- 
tempted to scream around it. It sounded 
like a frog being stepped on. 

When ,1. M. regained coherence, he 
was able to gasp, "People drink ihat 
out of choice?" 

"Oh yes, many of the southerners 
of America prefer it to any other 
spiritous drink." 

"Guggh!" 

The Chief had told J. M. to go to 
the States and stop this heinous opera- 
tion at its source, and so here he was. 



motoring into one of the least known 
areas of the world, the Blue Ridge 
Mountains of Tennessee and North 
Carolina. It was an area renowned not 
only for its moonshiners but also its 
deleterious food and the sexual precoc- 
ity of its young women. 

"Bragi, stop at the next spot and 
we'll have our dinner." 

"Yes sir, there is a public park just 
ahead." 

With the safari kitchen in the boot 
of the Hummelste, Bragi was able to 
fix a creditable meal consisting of Lob- 
ster Chombord, Potatoes Strovnov, Sa- 
lade Italianee, and Assmannhausen '59 
chilled to 43" F as a beverage. J. M. 
had this repast spread before him on 
the built-in monkeywood table when a 
shadow fell across his plate. His highly 
trained reflexes threw J. M.'s body 
against the opposite door while he 
simultaneously drew his Walther KKP 
from its handmade Injun Joe shoulder 
holster. 

"Whatcha doin,' mister?" inquired a 
child's voice. 

The eyes in their deadly-killer squint 
flew open as J. M. stared at a woman's 
body topped by the open face of a 
child. Stringy dirty blonde hair framed 
a thumb-sucking dirty mouth, and 
when she opened it, J. M. saw the girl 
hod no top front teeth. A sun-faded 
and woods-stained cheap cotton shift 
fought valiantly to hold a lush, sensual 
body that was not restrained by under- 
garments. 

"Whatcha doin', mister?" 

"Where have you come from child? 
I did not hear you approaching just 
then." 

"fom down in th' holler back there. 
You sure talk funny mister, you a ferin- 



"Why, yes I am. I'm an exporter of 
native American goods. People in 
Europe love to have the quaint little 
things made in these mountains so I 
come down here each year to buy items 
of interest. This trip I have on order to 
fill for a man in France who wants 
something called 'moonshine.' Would 
you know where I could obtain some 
of this substance?" 

" 'Shine ain't substance, it's likker, 
and I don' know where you can obtain 
any but I know where you can get 
some 'cause my Paw makes it and he'd 



continued on page 34 




AMICABLE AGNES 



This month's local, lovely, loss of the gross first come to the attention of Plowboy when she 
said that we could photograph her sons clothes, and how could anyone refuse to take a picture of 
a nude babe? Don't let the monicker of Agnes Monyteet fool you, she's a real cool mother. Our 
bacchanal bovine of the month says, like most of our readers, she likes her men horny and foot 
stomping. As for her favorite pastimes, she enjoys playful romps in the pasture, swatting flies with 
her toil, and posing for radioactive milk ads. Her big ambition in life: to be made into filet mignon 
and then eaten by James Bond. 



23 





*^:iil^ 




24 




.;•» 



-^H 



^m 



^-^ifti 



#^'"'' 



PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEOFF GROUT 



25 



PLOWBOY'S PARTLY JOKES 



Aware of his prospective father-in-law's flair for sar- 
casm, the young groom-to-be was nervous over the pros- 
pect of asking for his daughter's hand. Summoning the 
necessary courage, he approached the girl's father and, 
with the utmost politeness, asked, "May I have your daugh- 
ter for my wife?" 

"I don't know," came the reply. 



day trying to sell sheep-herders' boots. Yes, just about 
everyone knows that one. 



Then there was the man who wanted to get something 
for his wife, but he didn't want to spend too much money, 
so he didn't get her anything. 




Uur unabashed dictionary defines quadrigemina as 
four masses of nervous substance forming the back part 
of the mesencephalon. 



I he bleary-eyed, unshaven bum approached a passer- 
by and said, "Mister, could I have $20.10 for a cup of 
coffee?" 

"But," the man protested, "Coffee only costs a dime." 



Our unabashed dictionary defines exodus as the de- 

pature of the Israelites from Egypt (with the) or the second 
book of the Old Testament, which describes this. 




Our unabashed dictionary defines Stillwater as a vil- 
lage east of New York, on the Hudson River 21 miles north 
of Albany and just south of Saratoga. A city in north-cen- 
tral Oklahoma; population 24,000. 



I n Clemson, everyone says wee, instead of wheel 




We suppose you've heard the one about the traveling 
salesman who called up his wife after spending a dreadful 



Have you heard fhese jokes like fhey're supposed to be? 
H you have you've been reading bad magazines, go fo jail 
no $200 dollars and shame on you. 



26 



PLOWBOY FASHION FORECAST 
f 




Showing his wife the latest styles in one of the world's coolest fashion magazines, our model opens to the lote- 
evening in-the-cow pasture wear. His own distinctly dad-self portrays the always popular bib blue jeans worn 
by Plowboys across the nation. Tailored hammer pocket on side of leg is available upon request at clothing 
store. 



27 



Another Plowboy contemplates whether he's stylishly correct by wearing his moderate weather suit or should 
he change to cooler attire. His smartly tailored tweed suit is a product of the Salvation Army clothing division. 



At all times of year, the fashion forecast may be the same for 
many Plowboys due to the limited sources of exquisite clothing 
stores in the surrounding area and their financial difficulties. And 
although this produces many notoriously bad cases of B.O. and 
"the Goat," single suited Plowboys distinguish themselves by their 
unique choice in clothing. 



28 




Our friend the "Rabbit," taking time-out from restocking his well-fortified shelves of elixirs, strikes a forward- 
looking fashion pose in his orange-billed cap. The brightly colored cap is both waterproof and glows in the 
dark, all sizes available. 




Plowboy pool room attire is casually worn by three exhausted players, after completing a rough game of 
eight-ball. The black jacket and pants worn by the distinctive gentleman on the right invaluably provides 
concealment at night to the owner (especially in dark alleys. Notice Clemson ring on finger.) The remaining two 
billiard players have broken away from the conformity and rigidity of "button-down living" as they both 
display attire conventional to the pool room after six. Lace-up boots provide support in difficult pool shots and 
maneuvers. White sweat shirt is usually worn when the athlete is relaxing, keeping both arms warm and ready 
for action. 



29 



''Well, Mr. Pinkerton— that's the last 
time I'm going to ask YOU to help 
me with my shawl." 




30 




avery gosnell was a cool guy 



RIBALD CLASSIC 



FROM 20th CENTURY APPALACHIA 



Avery Gosnell was a strappin fine feller what had a big 
pasture, nineteen hefFers, one tired bull, forty seben chickens, 
and three hogs. He also had two ruint daughters. 

Avery you mite say had it made. He didn work nowhar, 
but he'd tried it onct. Hit didn agree with him. And then he 
up and stumbled onto somethin called welfare and hit agreed 
with him somethin powrful. He kept his welfare secret fer a 
good while, but when, he got lected mayor a Slipry Noodle 
he mode some rangements, and fore long all us hod a finger 
in the pie. 

There warn't but one thing in this world what troubled 
Avery an that wuz two things. His two ruint daughters. And 
he wuz troubled bout them somethin fierce. They wuz jus no 
use atall. The chickens'd git spooked whenever they seen them 
girls an wouldn't lay fer two weeks, an the cows'd go dry 
if ever them girls tried to pull milk from em. An when the 
bull would see em he'd try to ston up an beller, an seein he 
warn't gone make it, he'd start kickin round on the ground 
an squallin. 

Avery had axed the welfare woman onct what he could 
do bout his daughters an she said why didn't he put em 
out in somethin called the peace core. Avery sed no mam, 
his daughters mite be a little on the homely side but they 
wuz nice girls. So she mentioned somethin bout tryin a red 
cross an Avery plum got mad at that. He sed he didn blieve 
in trying to breed folks like they wuz prize hefFers. So then 
says somethin about a school a finishin an Avery he got even 
madder b'out that. He tol her the good Lord made them girls 
the way they wuz an that wuz the way they wuz ment to 
stay. An he pict up his check an out he walks. 

Straight out he went to see Lem Snokes. Lem had quite a 
haid on his shoulders when hit come to figgerin out slick 
deols, tho Avery warn't considerin this no slick deal unner- 
stan, but Lem shore gave him somethin what he wouldn a 



ever thought of. Lem sed what he needed wuz some a thet 
stuff what folks at one of them South Amurcan universities 
in Texas wuz tryin out. Somethin called a name like peeodee. 

Lem sed they wuz takin little peas from offn kaktus stalks 
an brewin em up special like, an everbody wuz gittin all 
kinda wierd dreams from snifFin an drinkin of hit. Avery didn 
see how that wuz gone help him any. An Lem tol him if he 
wuz to give some a thet stuf to some a the boys at a barbecue 
thet they'd git so wall-eyed that Avery could marry his 
girls up fore them boys could wake up. 

Thet ideer wuz a smacker shor nuff an Avery made hit his 
plan. The only way fer him to git someo thet stuff wuz to 
write thet South Amurcan place an ax em to send him some. 
But writin warn't never Avery's strong hand an he got a mite 
confused besides. What finly happened wuz he sent a air- 
mail special deelivry letter to some kinda dean down thar an 
axed him to please send Avery Gosnell a Slippry Noodle 
some cayotee pea. Thet letter caused quite a bit a com- 
muckus fore Lem could straighten things out. But they finly 
got what hit wuz they had wanted in the first place. 

Lem he fixed hit up an Avery he called a big barbecue. 
He invited the preacher on the sly cause he figgered if the 
boys knew the preacher were comin they wouldn none of em 
show up. 

But everybody came an preceded to have theirselfs a real 
rolliker. When Avery figgered everything wuz bout prime, 
he commenced to speclate on who hit wuz he wanted his 
girls to marry up with. He didn try to pic too good cause he 
knew there wuz some a the boys wouldn stan fer hit no 
matter who sed hit wuz legal-like an everything. 

He finely sleeted Snoddy-Boy Acree an Barnyard Dorcus. 
He figgered Snoddy-Boy would holler some but would stick 
continued on next page 



31 



MOON SHADOWS 

continued from page 14 

silently, swirling and disappearing in a 
frenzy of rapid motion. 

"I'm sorry, Sandy. Now I've hurt you 
too. I really didn't mean to. Honest to 
God." He was speaking into her hair 
and she fell loose onto him as the soft- 
ness of his voice suddenly removed 
her anger, leaving only the great hurt 
welling forth from herself uncontrol- 
lably. 

"Oh, Bernie . . ." she could not find 
words, only ideas formed halfway in 
her mind. "Why didn't you say some- 
thing before? Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because you were happy. At least 
that's what I thought . . . you too, I 
guess. I liked to see you happy, it 
mode me feel good. You shouldn't 
ever be sad, Sandy. Never." Bernie 
realized that he sounded like a fool, 
that he was speaking like a child, in 
terms of a child's hurt, to a child. The 
feeling angered him, for he realized 
that he was now saying what he had 
always wanted to say, what he had 
felt all along. And he thought she 
understood. That made him happy in- 
side again, and he could think clearly. 

"Here. Stop crying. It's all right now." 
He put his hand under her chin and 
looked down at her and smiled. She 
dropped her eyes from his face, sniffed 
and smiled also. 

When she realized that she was 
crying no longer, she looked up at him. 
Bernie took out his handkerchief and 
wiped at her face. He pinched her nose 
and they laughed. She took the hand- 
kerchief and blotted at her eyes and 
Bernie was struck by the girlishness of 
her, standing in the moonlight drying 
her eyes. She was beautiful. 

Bernie and Sandy walked down 
through the blue night forest arm in 
arm, at peace, for a time, with the 
world, and with themselves. He said 
goodnight to her at her apartment and 
she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his 
cheek. A few whispered words and the 
door was closed, and he was walking 
down the ice-covered road, and she 
was dressed for bed; and he was enter- 
ing his apartment, and she was lying 
in the darkness with a pool of moon- 
light on the floor beside her bed; and 
he was sitting by his window smoking 
silently and thinking over the past 
events. 

And she was asleep. 

But as the night passed and the cof- 



fee came and went and the cigarettes 
fell one by one like shooting stars from 
the window, the preciseness and the 
clear-cut significance of the events be- 
gan to wear away, and the doubts 
came again. There would always be 
Jack, Sandy would always be Sandy, 
no matter what revelation was forced 
on her. 

And he would always be himself. 
Nothing could change this one fact. He 
was just Bernie, the good-natured 
friend, the skier, visitor to Switzerland 
. . . just Bernie. 

The fact struck him as he was sure it 
would strike Sandy sometime . . . the 
next day, the next week ... he was 
just Bernie. And she was just Sandy, 
and nothing in the mortal world could 
change them, make them more compat- 
ible, fit them for one another. 

A sudden sadness drifted over Ber- 
nie as he sat in the partial darkness. 
The greyness of dawn was beginning to 
creep over his window sill, and with it 
came the hardened reality of the facts 
of the dream-like night. There should 
be no second chance . . . the first had 
taught him that. Regardless of the 
night, the unattainable was still unat- 
tainable. She was in a completely 
different world than Bernie. Those 
worlds had never crossed successfully 
and he doubted if they could do so, 
though he was willing to give it a try. 
But it was no good and he knew that 
she would realize it sooner or later. 
He left her a note saying not to drink 
too much wine, and he packed his 
bags. 

Bernie left on the morning train. 

(dedicated to Sandy Tarquino) Fic- 
tion by Garland G. Gooden. 



RIBALD CLASSIC 

from preceeding page. 

to what wuz done cause Snoddy-Boy 
werent no prize hisself. He wayed nigh 
on to three hundred pounds, didn have 
cept three teeth, on had warts in his 
nose. Barnyard he drooled real bad, 
wuz skew-eyed, an slept with his daddy's 
chickens. Folks wuz always sayin they 
spected Barnyard to start layin fore too 
long. Avery mite a thought that hisself. 
Well Avery he slipped some a Lem's 
brew to them boys an they commenced 
to cavortin aroun like nobody ever seen. 
Snoddy-Boy started screemin the snails 
wuz after him on tried to climb hisself 
cause he thought he wuz a tree. Barn- 



yard quit droolin an started buzzin like 
a junebug. He fell on his back trying to 
flap over Avery's backhouse an lay there 
cryin cause he couldn't roll over to fly 
off. Avery's two ruint daughters just 
stood by quiet like takin hit all in an 
waitin. An when them boys had tuckered 
theirselfs enuff, the preacher stepped up 
an the mariageable seremonees wuz 
confumagated. Avery wuz a mity happy 
feller til them boys come roun bout three 
days later. 

They had jus come to an had fount 
theirselfs married up to Avery Gosnell's 
two ruint daughters. They wuz a mite 
upset. They tol Avery they hadnt never 
done nothin to him an he ought not to 
have played a trick like thet on em. A- 
very looked real mollified thet they'd 
soy somethin like thet. He tol em they 
had axed him ifn they could marry up 
with his daughters an all he done wuz 
say yes an consign hisself to losin the 
only two children he had. They sed well 
in thet case he could have em rite back, 
unsign hisself an everthing would be jus 
fine. But Avery sed no, fair wuz fair an 
he had to lose them girls sooner or later 
anyhow. Well the boys wuz what you 
mite coll stil a mite unsatisfied. Hit were 
a mity big problem an Avery he sug- 
gested thet they all go down an see the 
welfare lady. So they all trucked off to 
whar her checkin office wuz. 

Well the welfare lady she listened em 
out an tol em everything wuz gone be 
fine. She sed first ofF she's gone git em 
on relief, they sed yessm thet wuz shore 
what they needed, Avery he jus nodded. 
Then she sed she knowed a feller what'd 
deeclare em a disaster area an their 
troubls'd be over. She tol em all to go 
home an sit tite. Some kinda society wuz 
on the way an all they had to do wuz 
wait fer hit to get to em. Well them boys 
went back an commenced to waitin. They 
raised the biggest family a porch sitters 
you ever seen an knew more bout rockin 
chairs and shade trees than anybody else 
in Slipry Noodle. 

Avery sed hit wuz jus great any way 
you looked at it. Folks roun there sed all 
you needed wuz two ruint daughters, a 
few barbecues, plenty a welfare, and a 
little waitin spell. 

(Retold by Frank Pearce) 



32 




Steal. That's the only way to do it. 
Like man, how the hell do you think 
I made my fortune— by being a cool 
investor in the stock market, by sav- 
ing every damn penny I ever made in 
my life, by marrying some rich, old 
babe— not on your everloving, hep, 
and suave life. Not me kid. I stole every 
penny I ever made in my life. In this 
world it's dog eat dog, and I don't 
care if you do have a Plowboy Club 
Key, you have to cheat, steal, cajole, 
and lie if you want to become rich, 
cool, and sophisticated like yours truly. 

When I started to amass my fortune 
I was just a young, punk kid. I started 
stealing small stuff like bubble gum 
wrappers, pencils in school, empty 
Coke bottles, used tooth picks, and 
green stamps. It doesn't seem like much 
now, but in those days it was almost a 
small fortune. As soon as I got into 
junior high school I organized a little 
protection racket. It was a simple set- 
up in the beginning. If some brat didn't 
come across with his nickel for the 
week I'd put rat poison in his lunch box. 
I used to *it next to the poor sap while 
he was eating his lunch to give him a 



false sense of security. After about 
three bites of his peanut butter sand- 
wich he started going into convulsions 
and ran out of the room with this 
crazy look on his face. If a teacher ever 
asked me if I knew what was wrong I'd 
just tell her he had to go to the bath- 
room but quick. Ah, those good old 
days in school. But I digress. 

By the time I entered high school I 
was well on my way to my first million. 
My biggest money making operation in 
high school was selling forged absence 
notes. The price varied with the number 
of days the kid wanted to be excused 
for and how rich the kid's parents 
were. I'd milk them for as much as they 
were worth. Of course, during the mid- 
dle of the week things got pretty slack, 
so I started a little business on the side. 
I began blackmailing my teachers. It 
was really an ingenious scheme. When- 
ever one of my teachers would leave 
the room I'd slip a French post card in 
her grade book. When the class was 
dismissed for the day I'd walk up to my 
teacher and ask her what I made on 
my last spelling test. She'd open her 
grade book, and the dirty post card 



would fall out on the floor. Naturally 
I'd pick it up, look at it and say "Oh 
Miss Jones, I didn't know you had such 
a dirty mind." The teacher would al- 
ways deny that she knew anything 
about the post card, but I'd threaten to 
tell the principal that there was a sex- 
ual pervert on the stafF. They always 
came across with the money. Yes, 
school was an easy place to make o 
quick, dishonest buck. 

After getting thrown out of school 
for stealing all the money in a Red 
Cross can I discovered the formula of 
how to become a success in life; if you 
are going to steal, steal big! No more 
nickel-dime stuff for me. So I started 
stealing really big stuff: Hugh Hefner's 
address book, the Brooklyn Bridge, 
Jayne Mansfield's bra, Mississippi (they 
should have paid me to steal that 
state), and six million dollars in cosh. 
It was the six million bucks that mode 
me hell on wheels with the chicks. It 
also made me a multimillionaire. 

So all you cool fellows, the easiest 
way to make a bundle is to steal. 



HOW TO AMASS A MASS 



ARTICLE BY ]. PAUL PETTY 



33 



AAASH RAKERS 

continued from page 22 
be pleasured to sell you some. Whyn't 
yo come on down to the house?" 

"Why I'll be glad to. Bragi, Bragi, 
Where is that man? Oh well, I'll leave 
a note on the tape recorder for him." 
After telling the recorder where he was 
going, J. M. followed the girl along a 
path that led out of the pork and 
down a precipitous slope. The trail was 
worn deeply into the ground, but 
bushes grew so closely over it that only 
previous knowledge would allow one 
to follow it. Ahead of him, the girl's 
dress looked as if some small animals 
were fighting to get out as she leaped 
nimbly down the slope. He did wonder 
how old she was but knew it best not 
to play around no matter what her age 
for mountain men were very protective 
about their women. The slope flattened 
out and the path mode a few turns be- 
fore it came out into a maize field. On 
the far side of the field was a building 
that J. M. thought was a chicken house 
until he saw a figure come out and 
stare at the two coming across the field. 
The boards of the shack had never felt 
a paint brush and not too many nails, 
as the place seemed to be in a state of 
imminent collapse. 

"Howdy stranger, somethin we can 
do fer ya?" 

"He wants to buy some shine from 
ya. Paw." 

"Why, come right in and set your- 
self down while I send Sallyjo Billie to 
get some from the smoke house. You 
here me now girl, run git that stuff." 

J. M. stepped gingerly onto the 
porch and walked into the hovel as the 
man held the door for him. The dark- 
ness of the interior was obscured by the 
explosion in his head when some person 
tried to put J. M.'s brains in his shoes. 
A brilliant light cut through the mist as 
he regained consciousness to find him- 
self bound to a chair. He could see no- 
thing but the burning light before him. 
Out of the darkness came a voice filled 
with joy, Sallyjo Billie's voice. 

"Yo goin' to let me burn him? Huh, 
Paw, huh? C'mon Paw, let me kick him. 
Aw, let me do somethin'." 

"Shut up girl, 'fore I whop ya one. 
Thought ya had us fooled with ya 
story didna ya. Commander J. Mel- 
bourne Bloomington IV, K.C.U.B., 
Esq.? We been waitin' for ya ever 
since ya left London. GHOST knows 
everthin' everwhere." 



"GHOST, what in the name of hea- 
ven is GHOST?" 

"Greater Horde of Old Southern 

Terrorists. We're going to rule the 

world when all the people are laid 
out by our 'shine." 

"You're mad, man. There are too 
many against you. Besides, you don't 
have any men in key government po- 
sitions." 

"\ wouldn't say that J. M., old boy," 
said Bragi's familiar voice, "for I have 
a nice position in your government 
wouldn't you say?" 

"Filthy traitor! You will never get 
away with your mad schemes." 

A huge fist came out of the shadows 
to smash into J. M.'s ear. "Shut yore 
mouf boy," said a following voice. 

J. M. was slumped in his bonds and 
was unable to understand the voices he 
heard. Suddenly, hands untied him and 
he was jerked to his feet. The door was 
opened to let in sunlight that showed 
J.M. his captors. Besides Bragi, Sallyjo 
Billie, and her Father, there were three 
hulking Neanderthals clad in greasy 
overalls. These three carried J. M. out- 
side, where he was thrown into a corn 
crib. He passed out, and it was dark 
when he became aware of his sur- 
roundings again. Someone was there 
beside him in the corn stalks. 

"Shh, don' say nothin', J. M. Paw'll 
kill me if he finds me with ya. I had 
to come out here 'cause I love ya and I 
want to help if I can." 

J. M. reached up, pulled the girl 
down to his face and gave her a pas- 
sionate kiss. Her breath reminded him 
of a paper factory close to his Bourne- 
mouth flat back in England. To stop her 
suffocating loving, J. M. asked Sallyjo 
Billie, "How old are you child?" 

"I'm gonna be sixteen in three 
months. I'm practically full growed." 

"Yes you are, but I must get out of 
here with my information." 

"Ain't ya gonna take on Paw and 
the boys and finish everythin' your- 
self?" 

"Are you joshing? They outnumber 
me and I would be a fool to try and 
capture them by myself. I will just drive 
to the nearest village and contact the 
local constabulary. They can come out 
here to arrest your father and the other 
people." 



"Why you dirty little coward! Paw! 
Paw! Help! Rape! I thought you was 
brave." 

Lights came on in the shack and 
men ran toward the corn crib. J. M. 
hit Sallyjo Billie a vicious backhand 
blow, leapt from the crib and sprinted 
for the woods. As he neared the first 
trees, blinding lights threw the running 
figures into sharp relief and an ampli- 
fied voice told everyone to stop im- 
mediately. 

"Mr. Bloomington, you walk straight 
forward until you get behind the lights. 
The rest of you throw down them guns 
and stay right where you are." 

J.M., when he passed the lights, was 
stopped and held until he could see 
in the dork again. He did not have the 
foggiest notion as to who these men 
were, but it was most probable that 
they were law enforcement officers sent 
to rescue him. 

"Mr. Bloomington?" 
"Yes, here I cm" 

"You stupid limey! You almost des- 
troyed six months' work by my best 
men. Next time your Chief has any 
bright ideas like this one, I hope he 
sends a more competent agent." 

"Look here Old man, I " 



"Don't 'Old Man' me. You just get 
out of my territory and tell O.M.A. that 
we can take care of our own moon- 
shiners." 

It was a month later, and J. M. was 
in O.M.A.'s office: "... yes, I had a 
little help from some of the local men 
at the cleanup. I don't believe we'll be 
bothered by GHOST again." 

"Agent 00-0, you have made your 
final error in Her Majesty's Secret Ser- 
vice (sound of distant trumpets). You 
will have to be disposed of." As he 
spoke these words O.M.A. pointed an 
antique Confederate flintlock pistol 
once owned by General J.E.B. Stuart at 
J. M. Smoke filled O.M.A.'s office as the 
body of J. Melbourne Bloomington IV, 
K.C.U.B.R., Esq. toppled to the Ottoman 
rug-covered floor. 

"He always was an ass." 



34 



PLOWMATES REGURGITATED 

Unfortunately our original negatives for this article had completely decayed and it was necessary for our photog- 
rapher to retake these 1865 beauties. Ah well . . . better late than never, (by Norman Withers) 



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36 





PILLS 
AND 
STUFF 

LYNCHES 
WALGREEN 
DRUG 
AGENCY 



CALIFORNIA PELICAN 



37 





YOUR 

HEALTH 

IS 

OUR 

BUSINESS 



MARTIN'S DRUG STORE 



HARPERS 




DOWNTOWN CLEMSON 




RAMBIER 

39 




all, Hush Puppies^ casuals have a sturdy steel 
shank to give your foot firm support- Start making 
the sidewalks softer. Put your feet in a pair of 



LADIES' 

$8.95 

MEN'S 
$9.95 



GOOD SELECTION 
OF STYLES AND 
COLORS. 



CLEMSON 

SHOE 

SERVICE 




COMING NEXT MONTH 



PHILBERT GOLDBRICK— ex-FBI agent exposes the extent of Com- 
munist infiltration in the FFA, FHA, and 4H organizations. 

Billie Sol Estates— A famous farmer gives tips on fertilizer storage, 

and tells of his problems with the socialistic meddling of USDA 
agents. 

Granny Frickert— our gourmet editor gives her personal recipe for 
possum guts fricassee and also writes of the culinary habits 
among the Aborigines of Walhalla, S. C. 

X2X— a noted religious fanatic reveals the measures taken by 
his personal bodyguard to prevent his assassination. This is an 
article of particular importance to liberal readers in Southern 
states. 

Dame Gwenhwyfer of Baliwick— next month's Plowmate is the 
champion St. Clarencia cow all of our readers know from the 
article in our last issue that delineated her rise from an obscure 
farm in (?) S. C. to the championship of American milch cows. 

The Chickens of Gaffney— are the things they say about Gaffney 
pullets true? A full color, five page foto feature and article by our 
travel editor, Tom Tiger, will answer many of your questions. 

In subsequent issues we will have a pictorial tour of the ancient 
barns of Appalachia; more get-ricb-in-5-minutes articles by our fi- 
nance editor, J. Paul Petty; the best in farm fiction by rising young 
authors; and our usual beautiful, fabulous, glamorous, voluptuous 
farm animals for animals. 

A special issue on replacement of the standard tractor engine with 
a special high rise, hemi-head, overhead cam, blown, injected 
6-cyc!e pistonless engine. Along with this new engine the modern 
farmer will be interested in the new high speed Molybdendum 
plows offered by Seneca Farm Equipment Inc., Ltd. 



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Chronicle 



CLEMSON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
SOUTH CAROLINA ROOM 



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©58 





John Garrison of Garrison-Ramon Salons, New York and Chicago, 
uses color to personalize hair design 




This world-famous hairdresser tells why... 



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Hey! Look, it's the CHRONICLE. 

We realize that December is a heck of 
a time tobeginasemester.sowedecided 
to end it instead. I guess you've heard 
our rocky-road-hard-luck story by now, 
so I won't relate it for fear of drawing 
tears (which, of course, would wrinkle the 
page). I promise, though, that we'll be 
out on time next issue undera brand new 
staff. 

Starting off this issue, you'll see a fine 
piece of art work on the cover by Tony 
London, our art editor. We also present 
some newcomers to our art department 
in the forms of John Hartley and Jim 
Carson. 

New talent also kicks off this issue's 
fiction. Harold Coombs confributesafine 
story entitled 'A Furrow in the Sand." 
Dwight Reynolds returns to our pages 
with "The Letter," and Vol Connelldebuts 
with "The Image." 

In the poetry corner. The CHRONICLE 
is proud to present Mr. James Battle, a 
hitherto unpublished writer whose 
"blurb" we believe you will enjoy. 

Will Shore breaks loose on the edi- 
torial page, grasping the conformity 
question in both talons and scrutinizing 
both sides before devouring it. Fed up. 
Will strikes back with a great lead fea- 
ture on the Fincastle Bluegrass Festival 
held in September. Mr. Jack Tuttle, pro- 
fessor of History, donated "Two Dollars 
that Builta Church'toourfeature section, 
and Mike Patterson has written o pro- 
digious epic on the Jabberwocky to which 
Ted McCoy adds some magnificent pic- 
tures. 

Ronnie Nappier and RussMeyers have 
put together the greatest girlie feature 
ever seen in the CHRONICLE. Fourteen 
(count 'em) local lovelies and some of 
the "best ever" photography you'll see. 

While I'm about it, I'd like to thank 
Dail Dixon, Dr. Mark Steadman, Dean 
Cox, and Mrs. Albert, without whose 
help, you wouldn't have to strain your 
eyes on this issue. 







WHAT SORT OF MAN 

WRITES THE CHRONICLE? 



Young....carefree....the kind you have to look at twice. Take our editor (please). 
He's a thinker. His eyes are sharp, his wit keen (tongue nearly always in cheek), 
his features clean cut, romanesque. His hair may be a bit long, but it's clean. 
There he sits discussing, no doubt, the most intellectual, pertinent topics. (Un- 
identified friend holds copy of CHRONICLE) Yessir, isn't he the man you'd like to 
be? You can, because CHRONICLE needs more just like this. Come on and join 
up. You can have your very own open-air stall. 



EDITORIAL 
COMMENT 

by Will Shore 



There is a surprising trend on our 
pseudo-sophisticated campus to socially 
ostracize anyone who, even remotely, 
tries to be different. Dissimilarity is strict- 
ly taboo. One either wears a madras belt, 
complete with Weejuns, Gont shirt, and 
thirty-six inch long billfold, or he may as 
well go stork naked— at least in the eyes 
of the various and sundry judges so 
cleverly placed throughout the campus. 
These paragons of scrutinization leave 
no stones unturned— noobjects, however 
personal they may be, unobserved. 
Thanks folks; you're doing a magnificent 
job out there. Just one thing— is the man- 
ner in which people dress any of your 
damned business? 

One must setforth, however, thatthere 
are certain disadvantages tosuchathing 
as long hair, or in more specific terms, 
nonconformity. It is a statistically proven 
fact that those males preferring to wear 
their hair long are the victims of thirty- 
three percent more attempted rapes. 
Also, it would only be fair to point out 
that those people who wear the same 
jeans for weeks at a stretch have a laun- 
dry bill which is usually $4.23 less than 
the average "joiner." Of course, little 
items such as insecticides, mouse traps, 
and public health certificates greatly off- 
set any savings which might fall into the 
non-conformist's hands. 

Let it not be said that this is a biased 
article; there are two sides to every story. 
The "joiners," or judges, sometimes ven- 
ture into the misty realm of nonconform- 
ity themselves. Why, just the other day, 
a tale was told which would strike a 
note of panic into the heart of even the 
most inconspicious "joiner." One of their 
ranks, a most highly esteemed member, 
was apprehended while coming outof his 



dormitory. He hod committed, and itisn't 
known whether or not the act was in- 
tended, the most heinous of offenses; he 
had left his collar buttons undone. Oh 
day, Oh day, Oh lamentable day! The 
shrieks of the medieval heretics must 
have been mere babbles compared to 
these. Disorder was rapant. Cries of trait- 
or were heard. This man had fled the 
boundaries of conformity; he had tried 
to be different. No longer could he sit 
upon the throne of judgement to mock 
those who dared to depart from the rigid 
standards of his sect. He, himself, had 
been tried and sentenced. 

The CHRONICLE, in the sense of fair 
play, wishes to announce itsfullendorse- 
ment of an all purpose protest march, 
the object of this march being to allow 
any and all interested persons todisplay 
their feelings as to whether or not the 
joiners or the "clods" are in the right. 
"To conform or not to conform, that is 
the question." (The protest march will be 
held on January 31, 1966.) 



What's block and white and red all 
over? 
Core? 
Don't be silly. A newspaper. 



Well reared girls shouldn'twearslocks. 



Definition: slip-cover— maternity dress. 



Two statues, male and female, wereal- 
lowed to come to life for 1 5 minutes by a 
god of old; they quickly retired to some 
nearby bushes. After some period of 
thrashing about, the statues emerged. 

"Now, you hold the pigeon— it's my 
turn." 



AL'S BARBER 
SHOP 



4 Registered 
Barbers to serve 



YOU 



Clint Morgan 

Ray Holsonback 

Ralph Crooks 

A I Burgess 



WHERE THE 
BEST GROOMED 
CLEMSON MEN 
GET THEIR 
HAIR CUT 



Down Town 
Clemson 




Looks carefree, 
doesn't he? 



Hmm, yeah. 
Must be a policy 
holder. 



VULCAN 
LIFE 



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Th.x 0I-...1X 


CORNELL 

l,n„/ o« Hun- ie,l. WIDOW 






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PRESCRIPTIONS? 

Let our experts 


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Fill them 




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TAPS 1966 



YOUR YEAR 

FOR YOU 




^^•i* 



LYNCH 
DRUGS 



Your Walgreen 
Agency 



"Drop in some 
Time" 



GARLAND G. GOODEN 

Editor 

GENE RUDISILL 

Managing Editor 

RUT LEELAND 

Business Manager 

TONY LONDON 

Art Editor 

JAMES BATTLE 

Fiction Editor 

RUSSELL MEYERS 

Photography Editor 

BILL ANDERSON 

Feature Editor 

WILL SHORE 

Humor Editor 

GARY LIGI 

Copy Editor 

HARRY TOWNSEND 

Promotions Manager 

BILL PAYNE 

Advertising \fanager 

CIRCULATION 

Alpha Phi Omega 



CONTRIBUTORS 

Valentine Connell 

Dwight Reynolds 

Harold Coombs 

Prof. }. E. Tut tie 

Mike Patterson 

Jim Carson 

John Hartley 

John Pearce 

PHOTO STAFF 

Ronald Sappier 

Don Collins 

Ted McCoy 
Chandler F.ilis 

DR. MARK STEADMAN 

» Faculty Advisor 



Chronicle 



OYKGANIZED 1891 



VOL. VI, ^O. 



CONTENTS 


6. 


Will Shore - Fincastle Bluegrass Festival 


10. 


Harold Coombs — A Furrow in the Sand 


13. 


Meyers - Nappier — New Look on Campus 


22. 


James Battle - Poetry 


23. 


O.S.O.P. 


24. 


Dwight Reynolds - The Letter 


28. 


Mike Patterson — Jabberwocky 


30. 


Valentine Connell - The Image 


34. 


Prof. J. E. Tuttle - Two Dollars That Built a Church 




OUR COVER: ART DIRECTOR TONY LONDON, who is un- 
fortunately, no longer with us, presents a fine beginning 
by way of his interpretation of the New Library. 



The CHRONICLE is an official publication of Clemson Univeriily published about three timet a year in Septem- 
ber, December, and April. Address all correspondence to the CHRONICLE, Box 2186, Clemson, South Carolina. 
Student subscriptions are paid for through student activities fees. Other subscription rates: U.S. and 
possessions $1.00 per year; Canada and Pan American Union Countries $2.00; other foreign countries $3.00. 
Entered as regular mail at Clemson, South Carolina (second class permit no longer pending thanks to South 
Carolina's seniority in the powerful post office committee). The editors assume no responsibility for the return 
of material, you have to come and get it. The opinions expressed do not necessarily coincide with those of 
the student t>ody, the faculty, the alumni or the administration. Our national advertising representative it 
College Magaiinet, Incorooraied, 11 West 42nd Street, New York 36, New York. Member; Attociated Col- 
legiate Prett. Printed by offset in South Carolina. 




PHOTOGRAPHY BY 
CKANOIER EUlS 
Will SHOUE 



DOC" PLAYS ONE CLAW-HAMMER STYLE 



FINCASTLE 

BLUEGRASS 

FESTIVAL 

During the weekend of SeptemberSth, 
the State of Virginia played hostess to 
the annual Fincastle Bluegrass Festival. 
Fincastle is a small town situated deep in 
the hills thatsurround Roanoke, Virginia. 
Bluegrass music is as much an institution 
there as are biboveralls. Almostanyone 
in Fincastle can finger a guitar or banjo, 
or if he lacks the ability to play a musical 
instrument, he can certainly slap one 
knee while yelling "pick at thang boy" to 
a performer. 

The festival is sponsored each year by 
Carlton Honey. Mr. Honey pays for the 3 
day event entirely on his own. Why?The 
reason is simple. Honey loves America's 
traditional music and doesn't wontfosee 
it die. People came from as for west as 
California and as for north as Montreal, 
Canada to hear the authentic sounds on 
display there. In addition to the yearly 
festival put on by Mr. Honey, he is 
seriously considering founding acollege 
of bluegrass music. Honey feels that 
when the present masters of the guitar, 
banjo, mandolin, and fiddle are gone, 
bluegrass music will go with them. He 
hopes to bring promishing musicians to 
Fincastle each summer and, by their 
being understudies to professionals in 
the bluegrass music realm, turn the ama- 
teurs into accomplished country music 
specialists. 

The site of the festival itself is nothing 
more than on abandoned horse pasture 
equipped with a stage and a three holer 
John. The stage, however, is graced with 
such legendary musicians as Bill Moore, 
The Stanley Brothers, Don Reno, Red 
Smiley, Benny Martin, Mock Wiseman, 
Clyde Moody, and the inimitable Doc 
Watson. Beside their performances on 
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, the 
entertainers give workshops during the 
afternoons. The workshops find the per- 
formers on stage where they explain 
their styles on a particular instrument, 
answer questions as to their techniques, 
and ploy any selections that ore re- 
quested. After the workshops end, there 
continued on page H 




BENNY & DON REMINISCE 




DOING IT UP MOUNTAIN STYLE 




is ample time to talk to each performer 
individually and ask him any further 
questions you might hove. 

If you're looking for nightclubs, go to 
the city, but if you're looking for Amer- 
ica's musical heritage go to Fincastle. 
The bluegrass festival is right over that 
mountain. 




S GOLD AAASTERTONE BANJO 




STANLEY & CO. 




WARMING UP 




A FURROW 

IN THE 

SAND 

BY HAROLD COOMBS 



The boat was typical of those hired by 
sportsmen for a day of fishing. Old and 
seasoned— not a thing of beauty. The cap- 
tain maneuvered his wheel toovercome 
a rip tide headed out the inlet. The 
machine droned in its lubrication of de- 
cayed organic matter. 

He was a deck hand and served the 
young men who tipped him with silver 
coins as he iced their catch. As he threw 



LIUSTRATEO BY JOHN HARTLEY 



a striper into the ice hold, a wave broke 
against a spray rail and sent its salty 
liquid across his face. Salt. Salt dried 
in the crevices of his skin. His skin was 
like his life. In the beginning it was 
smooth, but time came. Time came and 
affected channels. The channels were 
smooth and pleasant, but time was not 
content. It widened and it roughened. 
The craft made its way into the inlet. 




People sat fishing on the jetty and looked 
at him through their mirrors. 

The boat was docked, and he dispensed 
the catch. For the silver coins he helped 
the sportsmen load the fish into their 
cars. He stared blankly at the cold forms 
as they lay dripping their blood among 
spare tires and jacks. He walked slowly 
to his car and drove to the shack he 
called home. 



The door was there. He opened it 
and walked through. Thechairwas there, 
and he sat down. 

Light entered the open window an- 
nouncing a new day. People passed by 
the little shack observing their mirrors 
with loving eyes. They belonged to some- 
thing. They had to belong to something. 
They all knew just how to stare at a 
man outside his little shack. Rotten 



boards, beer, and a dirty undershirt. 
Gently he walked over the roughened 
sand and passed lightly over sea worn 
rocks. His prom waited faithfully. It lay 
high on the dry sand wedged securely 
between three large rocks. As he pushed 
the pram down to the sea, a smile passed 
over his face. He realized that indeed 
he was leaving something behind him. A 
long pleasantly shaped furrowwasclear- 
continued on pape 12 



A FURROW IN THE SAND 

continued from pu<^c 1 1 

ly visible to show that a man had passed. 

The oars dipped and redipped in the 
warm sea. By means of an oil stained 
rope attached to a piece of firm wood 
wedged between two rocks he secured 
his pram. The wood became covered 
with barnacles and looked like another 
rock. He walked slowly over the jetty 
examining the life which clung to the 
rocks. La mar washed the sea life and 
clothed it with nourishment and security. 
The rhythmic pounding brought life to 
the surface to peer at the outside world. 

He plunged into the sea. Its strength 
tightened the aged skin. He plunged 
deeper and deeper; yet, he could not 
reach the protective inner part. The sea 
liked her own, caring for and nourish- 
ing her children but remaining oblivious 
to his need for air. He rushed to the sur- 
face and gasped the necessary medium. 
He tried to make a permanent descent 
again, but the sea only laughed and 
swirled him in her powerful embrace. 
Schools of fish scurried away as the 
strange child came; the kelp swayed in 
obeyance to the mother. He approached 
dizziness and dragged once moreforthe 
surface. 

Above, seven sea gulls were fighting 
over dead fish which had been tossed 
aside by fisherman. A large pleasure 
craft labored through the turbid inlet 
tossing salt water magnificently into the 
breeze, but a small boy could not be 
heard crying over the soft purr of the 
engines. 

He floated on his back and examined 
the sky. The sun shone; its effect still cast 
shadows. A small fleecy cloud vanished 
into oblivion. 

A large school of puffers turned away 
to flee but turned back again to examine 
the supple form. The people watched a 
small pram bob aimlessly ontheseaand 
soon came to take it. A gentle wind came 
to fill shallow depression in the sand. 






CADA JENKINS 



the 

new look 

on 
campus 




I 



Brilliant photography and unusual back-drops connbine to moke this 
photo-feature one of the best articles we've had in quite some time. 
The CHRONICLE no longer has its gals set in such picturesque places 
as cornfields, ditches, trees, and garbage cans; we've gone to things 
of a more classical nature....airplanes, paintings, firetowers, and city 
dumps. Any reactions to this article should be attributed to the purely 
aesthetic qualities of the work; just keep telling yourself— they aren't 
sexy, they aren't sexy. (Ten to one you'll lose). 



photography by russell myers and ronald nappier 




NINA DULIN 
DOLORES VIOLETTE 



SUZANNE CULBERTSON 






REBECCA FARMER 





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19 



SHELLY WHITE 




POEMS 

by James W. Battle 



FIRST DAY 



PAPER FUNERALS 

an old man on the corner 

selling papers 

was all he was 

to those who passed 

and heard his croaking voice 

chanting headlines 

that meant so little to him 

only the nickels and dimes 

they brought. 

his days were badly written 

as if to spare the pen 

the agony of endless repetition 

and underneath the ragged greatcoat 

he always wore 

there was no room for kindness 

for dirt that caked 

his canvas skin 

caked his heart as well 

when he died his only knell 

was the honking of a bus horn 

on the corner he left empty 

and his only mourner 

the peanut vendor down the block 

who wondered why he'd moved 

thinking perhaps 

he'd found a better spot 

and he had 

for the worms bought all his papers 

and devoured 

all his headlines 



You made the double in me half 
And brought the dreams away 
In polished wicker baskets 
Till awareness of your presence 
Seemed to me like old men dying 
Alone on Monday afternoon. 

I touched your breast and 

Felt the mist fall hard 

From hoary lips of twilight clouds 

Grey as last year's love. 

On the ragged ribbed unbrellas 

Of the mourners standing round 

Watching as they placed him 

In the crumbling gap of quiet passion 

His manhood conquered last. 

Cursing his impertinance to die 
When it was raining; while the 
Birth-pangs of a new week 
Ground down on last week's follies. 
Still God's tears did serve their purpose 
To rescue them from weeping. 

I touched your heart and heard the 
Sullen thumping of the wet earth 
On his polished coffin lid; 
I drew out my reeking hand 
To slip a dream inside to him 
For Tuesday morning's breakfast. 



BLUE MORNING 



FINAL SORROW 

We are in that final sorrow 

Where the night and silence scare me 

Empty walls are living faces changing, laughing 

At the gold creation throbbing underneath my window 

Planning how and why to love and 

When to kiss your hair and ask politely 

If they may leave their footprints on your heart 

As I lie here and try to cheat life 

Thinking how to leave unnoticed but 

With a certain grace in passing 

So as not to make those living fools think 

What a pity that he died so young and 

Congratulate themselves because their fires still burn. 

I can hear God's soft voice calling 

It sounds so much like yours, lonely thick 

With promises of secret places to explore; 

If I could only see your eyes again, just once 

Before I leave and find them wet and 

Smiling to say you were glad I'd 

Never have to be afraid again or cry 

Because this beauty always seemed so out of date. 

I will turn before I close the door 

And say politely, if a little sadly 

What a pity you must live so old. 



I see the withered moon 

Has run its course and ended 

In the strange desire of dawn. 

The stars, I fear have milked the night 

Of loving, and left a clammy dew 

Spread thick upon the grass roots 

As sea foam on a gray december beach. 

Where's the purpose then in parting 

From these temperate sheets we've tangled. 

Consecrated warm with sand and hair. 

The streets outside are' lying 

Bloated, silent to the sun's first rays; 

They too have had these moments 

To beat out frenzied rhythms 

Of a wild magic love 

Against the silent pounding of a midnight clock. 

But their dumb tongues will not tell it 

Love, as ours will to please the fancy 

Of a satiated pride; 

And they'll scorn our follies mutely 

If we venture out the door. 

Better then to stay inside and suffer 

The averted glance of half-closed lids; 

Drink cold coffee and pine as children do 

With flopping shoes and dresses trailing in the dust; 

Play at being gods we'll share 

Tomorrow. 



O.S.O.P 



by Brian Dunkle 

Little Miss AAuffet sat on a tuffet, 

eating her curds and whey; 

Along came a spider 

And sat down beside her, 

And said — Come into 

My parlor while I open my fly. 



Excerpts From 

"A Look At The World 
of Children" 

by John Pearce 

I 

Bark at me, doggy 

Don't bite. 
As long as you bark. 

You can't bite me, doggy. 
Bark at me, doggy 

But don't bite 

Or I'll step on your mouth. 



IV 

Hey, bear, have a peanut. 

I love bears. 
Mommy says bears will hurt me. 
You better not hurt me, bear 

Or I'll never play with you again 
As long as I live. 



THE LETTER 

By Dwight Reynolds 



The stairs were dark and steep, but 
Eric Baines did not notice tonight. His 
feet followed the familiar route without 
directions from him, and his attention 
was focused on the letter in his hand. 
There was no return address, and the 
handwriting was unfamiliar. Stranger 
than that, however, was the address. 
Never before, during their four years of 
marriage, had his wife gotten a letter 
addressed just to her. Even her family, 
on the rare occasion that they wrote, 
sent it to Mr. end Mrs. E. Baines. But 
here was this one in a plain white en- 
velope addressed to "Carol Baines." 
Whoever had written it knew she was 
married, and Eric was surprised to dis- 
cover that it bothered him that he had 
not used "Mrs." 

He set the letter on the small wooden 
table, which made their livingroom their 
diningroom also. He propped it against 
a used drinking glass so she would be 
sure to see it when she came in. He be- 
gan to collect the dirty dishes from 
around the room and deposit them in the 
sink. Perhaps, if his wife was nottoo tired 
after work tonight, she would wash them 
while she complained about her boss, 
her customers, and her long hours. If 
she did not do them tonight, they would 
wait. That was one job around the house 
he would not do. In his family the dishes 
had been woman's work, plowing, feed- 
ing the stock, and milking, that was the 
man's work. 

As he was straightening the bed, he 
had an idea. He picked up the letter and 
read the postmark. It was from some- 
where in the city; that didn't help him 
any. Then he let the thought, which had 
been in the back of his mind, formulate 
itself into consciousness. He could say 



that he was tired when he came in— be- 
sides the stairs were so dark— he would 
not even read all of it, just enough to 
find out what was going on and who. 

He did not open the letter. Just then 
the door opened, and his wife stood in 
the dim lightof the single lamp. She stood 
for a moment with her hands propped 
on her hips, and, in her black uniform, 
Eric thought she looked like the Gestapo 
agents he'd seen in the movies. He 
knew he was not being fair, she was a 
good woman. She was tired though, 
waitress work was not easy, and most 
women at the age of forty were looking 
forward to retirement to the domestic 
life, but she was still worried about next 
month's bills. She expected nothing else. 
They had both been married before, him 
twice and her once, and neither of them 
nursed many illusions about life. 

She stood, for a moment, in the door- 
way staring at her husband, athershare 
of the world's manhood. He was staring 
back at her open-mouthed and unmov- 
ing, a pillow from his bed making tucked 
under one arm and an envelope held 
in his free hand. She thought he was of- 
fering it to her the way a child offers up 
the sweets his mother catches him with 
between meals in anticipation of a scold- 
ing. 

"What's that?" 

"It's for you. How should I know what's 
in it?" 

"For me? I haven't bought anything. 
Who's it from?" 

Eric did not answer, but shoved the 
letter across the table at her. She picked 
up the letter and looked for a return ad- 
dress. Just as she was about to rip the 
end off the envelope, the style of the 
handwriting stopped her with a memory. 



She laid the letter, unopened, on the 
table, propped against the glass as her 
husband had placed it before. She turned 
towards the bed and began to fidget 
with the zipper on her back. 

"What's the matter, ain't you going to 
open it?" 

"It's my damn letter. I'll open it if I 
want, and I won't open it if I don't want. 
I don't get a letter every day. Maybe I 
want to relax first." She pulled the uni- 
form over her head and stood in her 
slip, while she lit a cigarette. 

"Well, if you're so damn tired I'll open 
it for you." 

"No you won't. You just leave my damn 
mail alone." 

"The hell, I'll goddam well open it if 
I please." 

"No, Ec, please don't. Listen, I know 
who it's from, and I don't want you to 
read it. I ain't even going to read it 
myself; just give me a minute, and I'll 
tear it up and throw it away." She felt 
a strange satisfaction at the mystery she 
had created, the more so, because she 
knew she should not. 

"Now what is that supposed to mean? 
How could you know who sent it, if you 
haven't opened it yet?" 

"I know. I recognized the handwriting. 
Now let me just tear it up." 

"That's crazy talk. You just leave it right 
where it is, and you tell me who it's from. 
I got a right to know." 

"Don't make me tell you." 

"I got to know." 

She had tried, she thought. Whatever 
happened, he had brought it on him- 
self. "It's from Frank." 

"Frank, you mean your first husband? 

What business has he got bothering you? 

You open that letter; if I find out where he 

continued on page 26 






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ILLUSTRATION BY JIM CARSON 



THE LETTER 

continued from page 24 



is, rilteach himwheretogetoff, dragging 
up times that would best be forgotten. 
Give me that envelope." 

*No Ec. First I've got to tell you." 

'Tell me what? What's in there that you 
don't want me to see? You knew who it 
was from, maybe you know what's in it." 

"Now just listen and then decide." Her 
audience was captive now, and the lime- 
light wasfrighteningly warm. "Itwasover 
a month ago— that's why I'd almost for- 
gotten. You were out on a binge, and 
you hadn't been home for two nights. A 
woman gets lonely sometimes, lonely 
like a man couldn't know. But I stayed 
home; all I did was write him afew lines. 
I needed to talk to someone." 

'But I'm your husband now." 

'And he never was, isthatwhatyou're 
trying to say?" 

His subjugation was complete. 'I never 
cared about that, you know I never 
cared," his voice was muffled by the full- 
ness in his throat. 

"But he never married me, and you drd; 
so that makes you something special, 
doesn't it?" 

'I'm not going to listen to this any more. 
I'm going out. Now you can open that 
letter or not, it doesn't matter to me." 
He closed the door on his way out, but 
stopped in the darkness at the top of the 
stairs. He gripped the handrail, leaned 
toward the smokey light below him. He 
stood motionless for a long minute. Each 
breath he drew was deeper than the last, 
and his grip tightened steadily on the 
rail, until his knuckles were white, and 
his whole body shook. Suddenly he 
swung around and threw open the door. 
It crashed against the wall behind it. 
Carol was holding the envelope up to 
the light; she swung around startled. She 
saw him as she never had before, 
hunched over with his fists clenched. 
Only the mouth moved in the scarlet 
face, but his eyes were brimstone. 

'Carol, you ain't going to open that 
letter." 



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Jabberwocky 

BY MIKE PATTERSON 
Photos By McCoy 



It was the Friday of the Rat Hop, about 
12:00 p.m. Bill was lonely, dejected, and 
destitute. He was also cold from a recent 
motorbike ride. As he trudged, shivering, 
up and down the lonely streets looking 
for a safe place to park his bike, he hap- 
pened to notice the door to the Jabber- 
wocky. There was noise ascending the 
stairs, and this phenomenon aroused his 
curiosity. Friday night of a dance week- 
end, and no noise? Itwas hard to believe. 

"Maybe it's warm down there," he 
thought. "Surely it won't hurt just to go 
down, and see why it's so quiet." 

As Bill came to the bottom of the steps, 
he realized that the place was nearly un- 
inhabited. He nodded to the waiter and 
walked over to the Jub-Jub room, fully 
expecting to see a band of some sort 
ready to play after an intermission. He 
saw a solitary waiter. The waiter perked 
up immediately, came over and said 
hey, and started shooting the bull like 
he was Bill's old lady. Bill was soon both 
warm and cheerful, and the waiter satis- 
fied his curiosity with the news that the 
dance had just started its last hour. 

Those of you who read the TIGER know 
the general arrangements of the Jabber- 
wocky. Those of you who don't can find 
out if you're interested. Just keep read- 
ing. It will probably be open from 6:00 
to 12:00 on Thursday, Friday, and Satur- 
day nights, with planned entertainment 
on Fridays and Saturdays. The exact 
times it will open are still not certain, 
though. It may not open for many more 
Thursday nights unless more people 
come in, but these are the predicted 
times. The menu is as uncertain as the 
schedule, but it is varied, to say the 
least. Jabberwocky serves ten or more 
varieties of coffee, as many as twenty- 
six varieties of tea, different pastries, 
and "anything we happen to buy when 
we're in Anderson." "Anything" includes 
mainly oddities or delicacies relatively 
new to the Clemson campus, such as 



English toffees or German kringle. 

The Jabberwocky is admittedly a little 
hard to find for the first time. The entrance 
is a door in the wall of Sloan's Men's 
Shop, which is, in turn, nexttothotfamous 
establishment known to all Clemson stu- 
dents OS Dan's. Go down the steps be- 
hind the door and you're in the Jabber- 
wocky. To the left of the stairs is the Jub- 
Jub room, used for the discussions and 
some of the entertainment. To the right is 
the service counter, in another room 
used for chess, entertainment, and seat- 
ing. The brick walls are covered with 
signatures and quotations written by any- 
one who wants to pay a quarter for the 
privilege. 

The history of the Jabberwocky is as 
interesting as the place itself. The campus 
ministers had been kicking around the 
idea of a coffee-house with some of the 
students for more than a year.Therewas 
a coffee-house movement on, and they 
thought it would be a good idea for 
Clemson to have one. Suddenly, in Jan- 
uary of 1965, several buildings came 
up for rent around town. The campus 
ministers, interested faculty members, 
the office of student affairs, and the stu- 
dents were represented. They discussed 
the idea as best they could with such a 
large crowd, and decided to set up an od 
hoc committee to work out plans and de- 
tails. Most of the people at the meeting 
were very enthusiastic about the idea of 
a coffee-house. Some of them were a little 
hesitant about the nature of supervision 
and the organization of the coffee-house, 
but the ad hoc committee solved that 
minor difficulty by setting upaneighteen 
member Coffee-house Council. This 
council, composed of nine members from 
the campus religious organizations and 
nine persons elected by the original 
members of the Jabberwocky, is spon- 
sored by the Campus Religious Workers, 
and has sole responsibility for the Jab- 
berwocky. 




At first there was serious discussion on 
the subject of customers. Who was to be 
allowed in the place? Should anyone be 
excluded? The coffee-house had been 
planned for the academic community, but 
should outsiders be allowed also? Final- 
ly, the planners decided that everyone 
was welcome. Hoke Sloan, who 
charged no rent for the first year, Dan, 
who helped with such things as supplies 
and advice on service, and the campus 
churches, have since shown that includ- 
ing everyone was the best policy. 

We hope that this article, with the ac- 
companying photographs, will give you 
an idea of what the Jabberwocky is like. 
Many students and members of thefacul- 
ty are addicted to the place. If you think 
you might like it, give ita try. It's a good 
place to take a date, especially if you 
have a thin wallet. If you're by yourself, 
it's a good place to talk to old and new 
acquaintances, watch a rousing game of 
chess, or listen to the planned discussions 
that will be held this year. 



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Mark lay on his bunk staring at the 
ceiling. He had never experienced in- 
decision before. Always, even asachild, 
he never hesitated. When the vote 
was taken, Mark's voice always came 
through loud and clear. Now, he was 
hesitating. 

Dawn. He'd never come across any- 
thing like her before. Six weeks ago he 
didn't even dream that such asshecould 
exist; now she was part of him. Part of 
his mind, part of his body, part of his 
soul. Her long, auburn hair tumbling 
softly down one side of her face onto 
her shoulder, and her eyes— those 
emerald, laughing, vivaciouswindowsof 
a goddess' soul— were impossible to put 
out of his thoughts. 

The dooropenedand Jim,Mark'sroom- 
mate, came in. Jim was a slight boy, his 
spare frame contrasted sharply with 
Mark's 230 pound mass of muscle. Mark 



about." 

"Dawn." 

"That's a curse? I should be sodamned! 
Everyone who has seen her thinks she is 
the most beautiful, wonderful...." 

"Stop it!!", Mark cried as he wheeled 
his huge frame around and stood facing 
Jim, his hulk dwarfing him. "She's the 
most beautiful, the most wonderful— 
that's all I hear from everybody from art 
critics to....to....to....Chemistry Professors! 
I'm sick of it!!" 

"All right, all right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry; 
let's drop the subject." 

"I'm sorry too, I haven't been myself 
lately." 

Mark crossed the room and started to 
wash his face. Jim flopped into a chair 
and watched him. The muscles along his 
broad, bronzed back rippled and flexed 
as they provided opposition to his heavy 
arm's movements. Mark stared at himself 



power and flexibility would be All-Ameri- 
con in ten games! 

"Why don't people just leave me 
alone? Just because I'm 6'3", weigh 230 
pounds, and spend several hours a day 
keeping fit, everybody automatically as- 
sumes that I must play football. Well, I 
don't, and I won't. I find little glory in 
getting myself all bashed up for the sake 
of a silly hunk of pigskin." 

"Fit?! You were 'fit' 150 push-ups a day 
ago! You just want everybody praising 
you and begging you to...." 

"Oh shut-up and take two running 
jumps and go to the devil! With that, 
Mark grabbed his jacket and thundered 
through the door like a late freight, 
bringing the door into it's jam with an 
un-holy visciousness that sent a tremor 
through the whole building! 

"Dawn has really gotten to him", Jim 
thought, "Her being has penetrated him 



THE IMAGE 



BY VAL CONNELL 



swung himself off the bunkand alighted to 
the floor with cat-like grace that was 
peculiar to him. 

"Well, if it Isn't 'wonder-boy' ", Jim said 
with mock satire. 

"'Wonder-boy' yourself, how'd you do 
In your math quiz?" 

"I blew the hell out of the bottom. How 
was your physics exam?" 

'I flunked it. You know that since I've 
met Dawn I haven't been able todoany- 
thlng." 

'Just because you'll probably get on A 
In Art doesn't mean you can flunk your 
other major; unless you're finally going 
to stop thisfoolishnessanddrop physics." 

•Why?" 

"Why what?" That was thefirsttime Jim 
had ever heard Mark ask that question. 

'Why now? Tell me. What did I do to 
deserve the Divine wrath?" 

'I still don't know what you're talking 



In the mirror as he often did. He had to 
admit to himself that he looked pretty 
"tough". The deep blue eyes and black 
hair complimented his ambrosal fea- 
tures. What was it that Judy had called 
him? "God's gift to us". An odd thing for 
a girl to tell a boy to be sure, but that's 
what she said. 

"Did the coach talk to you?" 

"What?" Mark flexed his biceps once 
more for his enjoyment and then turned 
his attention to Jim. 

"Did the coach talk to youaboutjoining 
the football team?" 

"Yes he did." 

"Well?" 

"I told him no." 

"Oh come on now,Mark. We're having 
the worst losing streak in the school's 
history! You're a lot tougher than the 
present fullback and I've watched you 
work out In the gym; a guy with your 



completely." 

Mark walked out into the sunshine. 
"If it weren't for the wind, it would be 
warm out here," Mark mumbled to him- 
self. He saw Ginny leaning against a 
pillor talking to a boy. She waved to 
him but he dldn'trespond."Fool!"Mark's 
brain spat the word out upon his 
conscience. "She's the campus football 
queen, the head cheerleader, the most 
desirable girl on campus— and I didn't 
even wave!" But she wasn't the most 
desirable girl on campus, Dawn was. 
"Damn her! Can't I even think without 
her name coming up? Oh God, what's 
becoming of me?" 

Mark wandered the rest of the after- 
noon. Mentally he wandered overevery 
Inch of Dawn's personality, anatomy and 
all over the campus ending up at the 
school of Art. Mark tried to figure out 
why he should come here; here where 
continued on page 32 



n-^ 




ILLUSTRATION BY JOHN HARTLEY 



THE IMAGE 

continued from page 30 

he first met her. He supposed it was kind 
of like the murderer returning to the 
scene of the crime. Mark still didn'thave 
any solution as he entered the building 
and preceded to the painting studio. 

Mark entered the studio and stopped. 
There she stood. The long, diffused fin- 
gers of the late afternoon sun coming 
through the windows caught her flaw- 
less form causing her hair and eyes to 
glisten. Her back was towards him with 
her head turned over her shoulder. Her 
eyes that hinted of so much butrevealed 
so little shared at him; memorizing him. 

Mark felt he had todecide. Itwas either 
her or him. Mark knew that if itwere her 
who triumphed hewould be torn to pieces 
by his indecision and failure. Her eyes 
still rested upon him— "The creator had 
the right to destroy", Mark said to him- 
self, "but, the creator must also possess 
the will. That was the difficulty." Mark 
heard footfalls, he had to act now or 
else he knew he never would. 

Mark made up his mind. He was happy 
once again. Dawn's eyes never left him 
in all this time and they looked on as he 
picked up the first heavy object at hand 
and raised it high over his head. His 
stomach muscle snapped like a steel 
spring sending the metallic mass smash- 
ing through Dawn's back! 

Dawn entered the room just as the 
noise of the crash ceased. Mark turned 
and looked at her; "I destroyed it." 

"Why? It wassuch a beautiful painting." 

"That was the trouble, it was so beau- 
tiful that people talked about it and not 
you. Yet it was your body and soul that 
inspired me to create it." 

"But...." 

"Quiet. Itwas nothing more than your 
image; only an imitation in paint and 
canvass of your beautiful soul. I've 
destroyed it and that's that. You know 
how I feel toward you; you are the most 
beautiful girl I have ever known. I didn't 
wont people idolizing an image of you, 
especially an imperfect one." 

Mark slipped hisarmaboutherslender 
waist and escorted her out of the studio. 



"He's so thoughtful", Dawn thoughtas she 
inclined her body toward his. "He didn't 
want me to watch the disappointment in 
people's faces when they discovered that 
I was the model for the picture." As Mark 
closed the door behind her, knowing now 
that he was even more perfect, Dawn 
raised her hand to her face and allowed 
her fingers to trace the path of the livid 
scar that extended from the bottom of 
her left eye to the corner of her mouth. 
Somehow, to her, it wasn't so ugly now. 



We hear that President Johnson is re- 
placing Ben Casey next fall. 



Curious old lady: "I see you've lost 
your legs." 
Cripple: "Well damned if I haven't." 



Fashion Note: They're wearing the 
some thing in brassieres this year. 



The Israelis are sending upa newastro- 
naut. Name's Nose Cohen. 




GOT A DIME? 

Bring It To 

HARPER'S 
5 & 10 

Downtown 
Clemson 



I 



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THE LECTURE 



T u* p f n 'z ^ 








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Ithough the title is not com- 
pletely accurate, certainly two onedollar 
bills contributed to the Clemson Bap- 
tists in their drive for a church building 
went farther than any two dollars ever 
did. All the more remarkable is the fact 
that these two dollars were never spent 
and still remain in the possession of the 
Clemson Baptist Church. 

The Clemson Baptist Church was or- 
ganized in 1907, two years before a 
pastor was secured, and six years before 
a church was constructed. The Rev. 
Thomas V. McCaul, a young graduate 
student at the University of Virginia was 
called, and he accepted the position in 
Clemson. As he later recalled, his "first 
obligation as pastor of the newly or- 
ganized Baptist Church was to raise funds 
with which to erect a church edifice." 

With that purpose in mind, he traveled 
all over South Carolina, preaching in 
Baptist Churches on Sunday,, and visit- 
ing communities and making personal 
contacts during the week. Hespentabout 
three weeks out of each month on the 
road. Every place he visited, he asked 
for special offerings and gifts for the 
church that he had to build. Hisfirstyear 
as pastor was one of discouragement. 
He couldn't seem to get across to the 
people that a great need existed in Clem- 
son for this church, but he kept on with 
his task. Then came a letterwhich helped 
to make the future look a little brighter. 
He had written to Mr. George C. Riser, 
superintendent of the Sunday School at 
NMiitmire, asking if he could appear be- 
fore the church and take up a collection. 
Here is the reply of Mr. Riser: 

Whitmire, S. C. 
March 23, 1910 

Thos. V. McCaul 
Clemson, S. C. 

Dear Bro. McCaul: 

I have just rec'd a letter end folder 
from you in regard to taking a collection 
in our Sunday School to help build a 




church at Clemson. Yes, let's build a 
church. We had a dear good boy that 
graduated from Clemson. He had taken 
a special course in electricity, and had 
just started out in his chosen profession. 
But last October while at work at Great 
Falls, a flash from the wires felled him 
to the ground and the next day he went 
home to be with his Gracious Heavenly 



Father. 

He loved God. He loved the church 
and he loved Clemson. He was ever 
ready to defend the College whenever 
anyone spoke disparagingly of the in- 
stitution. The day I rec'd your letter his 
mother, in lookingoverhisclothes, found 
two one dollar bills in one of the small 
pockets of the pants he wore when the 



TWO DOLLARS THAT BUILT A CHURCH 



Occident occurred. And knowing how he 
loved the College, and how delighted he 
would have been to see a Baptist church 
ot Clemson, I want to give you the Two 
Dollars for that purpose. So I send you 
the very bills that were token out of his 
pockets. Now I would like for some special 
use to be made of these bills. Can't you, 
my brother, or someother brother, while 
standing before some audience or Sun- 
day School and holding the bills in your 
hand, give a short history of them before 
taking the collection? Perhaps itmightbe 
an incentive to others to give of their 
means. They belonged toone God-loving 
soul, and I pray that they might bring 
others to Jesus. He loved young men. 



BY PROFESSOR J. E. TUHLE 

and I am sure if it was possible to add 
to his happiness— nothing would do it 
so surely as to know there was a Bap- 
tist church ot Clemson College. Now, 
my brother let me hear from you 'ever 
and anon", and I may hove another prop- 
osition to make you later on. (lama poor 
man and have three crippled sons, one 
entirely helpless and has been for 12 
years. If I were able I would give SlOO 
to help build a church otClemsonjwhere 
so many noble young men are called 
together each year, from all over the 
state, and some from other states. 

Yes, Sunday Apr. 17th will suit us 
to take a collection. 



Very Respectfully 
George C. Riser 
V\4iitmire, S. C. 

Rev. McCoul followed Mr. Riser's ad- 
vice. He used the letter and the two one 
dollar bills as he appealed to the South 
Carolina Baptists to lend a hand so that 
Clemson Baptist students would have a 
church of their own in which to worship. 
Collections increased as people heard 
the story, and in 1912 construction was 
begun. On November 23, 1913 the 
church was dedicated. 

Because of the energy and faith of 

Rev. McCaul, and his insistence on a 

large church (500 seat sanctuary)despite 

continued on page 36 



TWO DOLLARS 

continued from page 35 

the small number of Baptists in Clemson 
(26— not including students) the church 
building served the community for 50 
years before the congregation outgrew 
it. In 1964, under the leadership of Dr. 
Charles Arrington, a new and larger 
church was built, but the first church re- 
mains on the opposite corner a monu- 
ment to the love and devotion of a small 
band of the faithful, some of whom are 
still members. 

The letter from Mr. Riser and the two 
one dollar bills have been framed and 
remain "as a constant reminder of the 
sacrifice that brought the church into 
being, of the devotion and ideals of a 
Christian fatherand son who loved Clem- 
son " 



CNTEfnWMEP 








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Important Occasions . 

Diamonds By Keppie 
Necklaces By 

Kaspar & Esh 
Bulova and Hamilton 
Watches 

CLEMSON 

JEWELERS 

For The Country Gentleman 





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PRINTING For PARTICULAR PEOPLE 
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THE 

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SPECIALIZING In OFFSET PUBLICATIONS 

Easley, S. C. 







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Of course you'll be tempted! 
After all, the Austin Healey Sprite 
is bred to be used sportingly and 
competitively. It is a bona fide sports 
car. The official SCCA rating: Class 
H or Class G, depending on the year. 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, 
the power you may someday need 
is there.) The competition-proved 
Austin Healey engine turns up 
speeds in excess of 90 mph. There 
are twin carbs and 4-speed shift. 
Sprite can sprint. ..and keep on going! 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, the 
roadability you will surely enjoy is 



there.) The steering is never 
spongy or indefinite; and the 
redesigned rear suspension 
encourages impeccable manners. 
Sprite is as sure-footed through 
the corners as any other runners. 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, the 
control you must always have 
is there.) There are big disc brakes 
up front and 7" drums in the rear. 
Sprite's stopping power is 
commensurate with its performance. 

Of course you'll be tempted . . . 
tempted to prove that your Sprite 
can doas handsomely as it looks. 
We have wrapped everything in the 



smoothest possible envelope- 
modern. Spartan and rather lovely. 

All this and roll-up windows. 

All this and 30 plus m.p.g. 

All this for under $2,000.* 

Temptation rears its lovely head- 
at your Austin Healey dealer. 
Give in gracefully. 



AUSTIN 
HEALEY 



SPRITE 





Ckomcle 



APRIL 1966 




Of course you'll be tempted! 
After all, the Austin Healey Sprite 
is bred to be used sportingly and 
competitively. It is a bona fide sports 
car. The official SCCA rating: Class 
H or Class G, depending on the year. 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, 
the power you may someday need 
is there.) The competition-proved 
Austin Healey engine turns up 
speeds in excess of 90 mph. There 
are twin carbs and 4-speed shift. 
Sprite can sprint. ..and keep on going! 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, the 
readability you will surely enjoy is 



there.) The steering is never 
spongy or indefinite; and the 
redesigned rear suspension 
encourages impeccable manners. 
Sprite is as sure-footed through 
the corners as any other runners. 

Of course you'll be tempted! 
(But even if you never race, the 
control you must always have 
is there.) There are big disc brakes 
up front and 7" drums in the rear. 
Sprite's stopping power is 
commensurate with its performance. 

Of course you'll be tempted . . . 
tempted to prove that your Sprite 
can do as handsomely as it looks. 
We have wrapped everything in the 



smoothest possible envelope- 
modern, Spartan and rather lovely. 

All this and roll-up windows. 

All this and 30 plus m.p.g. 

All this for under $2,000.* 

Temptation rears its lovely head- 
at your Austin Healey dealer. 
Give in gracefully. 



AUSTIN 
HEALEY 



SPRITE 



FOR OVERSEAS D 
WRITE: THE BRIT 
OEPT. C M , 734 GH 



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HELLO! You are holding in your hot, tweaty little 
hands the largest single issue of the CHRONICLE 
ever assembled by our hot, sweaty little staff. In 
fact, you are holding the only issue assembled by 
this particular staff, but by no means the last. This 
issue and the one to follow in May (of this >ear, no 
less) represent a re-evaluation of just how the 
CHRONICLE might better fulfill its purposes as a 
college magazine. These purposes were established 
some years ago, and seem worth enumerating here 
and now: 

1 . To entertain and inform the students of Clemson 
University. 

2. To act as a vehicle for aspiring writers and 
artists, thereby encouraging the development of 
creative talents among the students. 

3. To encourage interest in journalism through 
enlightened publishing practices. 

4. To bring credit to Clemson University through 
excellence in design, publishing, and content. 

5. To promote the magazine as a valid communi- 
cations media on local, state, and national levels. 

As the CHRONICLE is the official student variety 
magazine of Clemson University, this is your mag- 
azine. The contents, whether they be literary, artistic, 
humorous, or nauseous, are up to you the students. 
The contents of this particular issue represent the 
work of those who have cared enough to become ac- 
tively engaged in some of the many facets of maga- 
zine publishing. If you, too, are literary, artistic, 
(or, alas, nauseous), and if you, too, care about 
the quality of student publications at Clemson, why 
not join the TIGER staff? We just can't squeeze 
anymore talented people into our office right now. 




DAVID MILLING 








AGOS 



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TAPis 




COMING 

APRIL 22 



DAVID C. MILLING 

Editor in Chief 
PAUL MORRIS 

Reviews Editor 
JIM BATTLE 

Fiction Editor 
WILL SHORE 

Feature Editor 
DON COLLINS 

Advertising Editor 
JULIE & LYNN CRAIG 

Business Directors 
DAIL DIXON 

Graphics Director 

JERI RIGOULOT 

Art Director 
RONALD NAPPIER 

Photography Director 
DAN BOWEN 

Promotion Manager 
JEFF SMITH 

Circulation Manager 
RUSS MYERS 

Head Photographer 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Dr. Harold Cooledge 

Garland G Gooden 

John Fernandez 

Tim McNeight 

John Matthew 

Tommy Mozen 

Mike Patterson 

Fred Busch 

Fred Robinette 

Pete Lewis 

Mark Hasslinger 

Kurt Palomaki 

Jim Carson 

DR. MARK STEADMAN 

Faculty Advisor 




yji^ ^ CLEMSON 

Chronicle 



VOL VI NO 2 



APRIL 1966 




CONTENTS 

David C. Milling 
Will Shore 

John Matthew 
Mike Patterson 
Paul Morns 
Don Collins 
Russ Myers & 
Will Shore 

Garland G. Gooden 
Paul Morris 
Paul Morris 

Paul Morris 



3 Editorial 

6 Ole' Matador 

11 Student Government — An Evaluation 

12 A Slight Miscalculation 

15 Dreuna Review 

16 C.L.E.M.S.O.N. 

25 Gentleman's Choice 



30 
31 
33 
38 

39 



Poetry 

A Birthday Present 

Gallery Review 

Book Review 

Interview 



Dr. Harold Cooledge 40 Poetry 

Tim McNeight 43 HVCEA Mark 7 



OUR COVER 



ART EDITOR JERI RIGOULOT conceived our cover which features the *bike', 
recent innovation on our campus, and suggests that this is the best way to 
really enjoy spring and get where you're going at the same time. 



The CHRONICLE U an official student variety publication of Clemson University pub- 
lished about three times a year in September. April and May, hopefully. Address all cor- 
respondence to the CHRONICLE, Box 2186, Clemson, South Carolina. Student subscriptions 
paid throueh student activities fee. Other subscription rates: U.S. and possessions $1.00 per 
year; Canada and Pan American Union Countries $200; other foreign countries $3.00. En- 
tered as regular mail at Clemson, South Carolina. The editors assume no responsibility for 
the return of material, you have to come and get it. The opinions expressed do not coin- 
cide with those of the student body, the faculty, the alunani, or the administration. TTie 
editor assumes responsibility for all opinions expressed in the whole world with the ex- 
ceptions of those expressed by me and David Crawford. 



ALPHA PHI OMEGA 

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OLE MATADOR 



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Bhe ultimate contest between man and 
the animal is the ancient art of bullfight- 
ing. The "ancient art" because records 
show that bullfighting was in existence 
in Korea, China, Egypt, Greece, and 
Rome in pre-Christian times. It is thought 
that bullfighting had its origin as a form 
of nature worsiip in which participants 
were seeking agricultural fertility. Today, 
bullfighting is a practiced art in Spain, 
Central and South America, and Por- 
tugal-although, in Portugal, the bull is 
not killed; the fight is merely a test of 
horsemanship. 

Bullfighting was introduced in Spain 
by the Moors, and it is said that the I I th 
century saw the great Cid, Don Rodrigo 
Diaz de Bivar, as the first Spaniard to 
kill a bull in the ring. 

For 600 years, mounted toreadors 
killed their bulls from horseback by us- 
ing a long lance. In about 1 700, the 
Spaniard Francisco Romero was the first 
unmounted professional to fight a bull. 
Romero was also the first to use a sword 
for the kill, and he introduced the muletc, 
a red flag on a staff used for maneuver- 
ing the bull around the ring. 

Bullfighting is, indeed, an art. The var 



:<iP^^. T_.' 



ious facets of the spectacle must operate 
smoothly together in order for one to 
both understand and enjoy a bullfight. 

The matadors, as the old toreadors are 
now called, have many assistants, in- 
cluding from three to four bande'-illeros 
and two or three picadors. The bande- 
rillero's job is to "play" the bull with a 
cape and, what this writer considers the 
second most dangerous task in a fight, to 
plant two 30-inch-long bandcillos be- 
tween the bull's shoulder blades. The 
picadors, mounted on old and worn out 
horses, wound the bull, not mortally, 
with long lances. And, finally, the mat- 
ador, as death records prove, has as 
his task the most dangerous and cele- 
brated facet of bullfighting— the kill. 

Matadors serve long apprenticeships 
before fighting in a major corrida. The 
danger of a bullfight, resulting from a 
very good chance that the matador will 
be gored, is the main factor behind a 
great matador's being poid S I 0,000 for 
a single afternoon's work. A "champion" 
matador, in his country, equals or sur- 
passes an American baseball or football 
star in prestige and fame. 

A bullfight is held in a plaza de toros, 
a special areno enclosed by a wooden 
barrier, or barrera, which is about four 



feet high. This small wall is the only pro- 
tection which the spectators havefrom an 
enraged bull that might, at any moment, 
decide to become an aficionado himself. 
In Spain alone, there are over 200 such 
arenas in which 1000 bulls and 5000 
horses are killed annually. 

The bulls used in the fights are of a 
special breed and are raised for their 
fighting qualities. These animals must 
weigh no less than 542 kilos, 1,194 
pounds, must be from four to five years 
old, must be free of physical defects, 
and they must be armed with sharp 
horns. 

There are usually six bulls to be killed 
in a single fight. Each bull matches his 
power and bravery against the skill and 
the courage of the matador. 

For the spectators, one of the most 
colorful events in a bullfight is the pre- 
lude, or grand march. The mounted 
arena officials and allthose participating 
in the fight parade around the arena in 
gayly colored costumes. After this comes 
THE FIGHT. 

An angry bull is released from a pen 
where he has been for some hours; he 
is goaded by a beribboned metal spike 



(Continued on page 8) 



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OLE MATATORE 

(Continued from page 7) 

which was planted in hisshoulderbefore 
his release info the arena. The bull first 
encounters a banderillero who "plays" 
the bull around the ring so that the 
matador can see the bull's fighting char- 
acteristics, his manner of charging, and 
the direction in which he hooks his horns. 
Next, the matador takes over— wielding 
as his only weapon a capo, or cape. 
The matador executes a series ofdifficult 
"passes" to demonstrate his skill and 
mastery of the bull. Both the banderill- 
ero and the matador attempt to "wear 
down" the bull. 

The actual fighting of the bull begins 
after the preliminary displays of bravery 
and odeptness. A bullfighting contest is 
divided into three parts. 

The first part of the fight is the suerte 
de picar. During this portion of the cor- 
rida, the picador rides into the ring on a 
horse which is protected by a mattress- 
like pad. The picador's job is to inflict a 
shallow gosh between the shoulder 
blades of the bull— the object of this 
wound being to aid the matador in the 
final coup de grace. If the bull should de- 

( Continued on page 10) 




/ 




OLE MATADOR 

(Continued from page 8) 

cide to charge the horse (which it invar- 
iably does), the banderilleros are stand- 
ing around him with capes to draw his 
attention. This is the reason for the deaths 
of 5000 horses in Spanish bullfights each 
year. 

The second phase of the fight is known 
as the suerte de banderillear. Here, we 
see the banderilleros put aside their 
capes; each man takes two of the slender, 
horpoon-like banderjllas and attempts 
to thrust them into the back of the charg- 
ing bull. This is a none-too-easy job— 
the banderillas are only 30 inches long. 
If placed right, the sixor eight banderillas 
aid the matador by causing the bull to 
lower his head and by checking any 
tendency of the animal to hook with its 
horns. 

The third and final act of the fight finds 
the matadc alone in the ring. He is now 



familiar with the fighting characteristics 
of the bull and is ready to administer 
the deadly, final blow with the estoque. 
His reputation is now at stake. He is 
armed with a single weapon, a long, 
slender sword, with which he must kill 
the bull— or face the consequences. In 
his left hand, he holds the muleta, or 
cape, and, with this, he attempts to 
manipulate the bull into position for the 
kill. The "death thrust" must be made 
from the front and between the shoulder 
blades— this is according to rules and cus- 
tom. If the matador is highly skilled, he 
kills the bull with a single blow, but usual- 
ly the matador must finish the kill with 
a short spike by driving it into the base 
of the bull's brain. 

After the kill, the carcass is dragged 
from the arena by a team of three mules 
or draft horses. The arena is scraped, 
and sawdust is spread over bloody 
patches in preparation for the next fight. 

The pictures which accompany this 



article were taken inthe Monumental 
Plaza de Toros in Monterrey, Mexico. 
The fight was a mono a mono, or hand- 
to-hand, contest between Eloy Cavazos 
and El Queretano. Both matadors are 
under 20 years of age, and they are 
novices in the art of bullfighting. The 
contest was won by 16 yearold Cavazos, 
who will now be able to fight in the 
world's largest bull ring in Mexico City. 

The two color pictures are of Cavazos 
as he first tempts thebullandthenmakes 
a "pass" at him with the cape. 

Bullfighting is certainly no sport for 
those people with weak hearts and stom- 
achs, nor is bullfighting a sport which is 
frequented by members of the S. P. C. 
A. It is an art in which both the rugged 
and the graceful combine to elicit feel- 
ings of suspense and awe from the spec- 
tators.— tickets from S.64* 

'Historical data from Collier's Encyclo- 
pedia 




10 



Clemson's Student Government An Evaluation 



Students in America are waking up— after a decade of silence 
and to the discomfort of many— to their responsibilities to them- 
selves and to others, of being actively concerned with the 
events and trends in todays society. This happy awakening has 
resulted in many pressures being exerted by the students of 
our colleges— pressures which have proven that they will find 
release, though not necessarily through acceptable means. In 
contrast to the attention-grabbing antics of those who release 
their opinions in public, little has been mentioned of the areas 
in transition due to the less exuberant, but more persuasive 
use of pressure behind the scenes. Oneofthese is the position 
of the student in the educational picture today— from his voice 
in making regulations to his interest in the affairs of his school 
as o whole. The traditional and legitimate, but often ineffective 
outlet for these pressures is at almost all colleges some form 
of Student Government. A natural result has been that these 
organizations have increasingly been put under scrutiny and 
have felt the pressure to become effective means of com- 
municating student opinion, or to become obsolete as they are 
by-passed by the current of student activism. This trend in 
turn has required administrators to re-evaluate their view of 
Student Government and to learn to work on more equal 
terms with students whose onetime mild requests have of late 
become bold demands. Where does Clemson find itself in this 
picture?— an evaluation of our Student Government should do 
much to define a student's position in the academic community 
here. 

Clemson has evolved a uniquely effective system of Student 
Government which has contributed to Clemson's progress in 
many ways— but, for all of its efforts. Student Government often 
receives little interest or support from the average student at 
Clemson and is sometimes misunderstood as to its intentions 
and abilities by the University administration. 

Clemson is unique in the readiness shown by its administra- 
tors to listen to student views and to accept students on personal 
terms. Operating under a definitive Student Body Constitution 
and demonstrating a fine attitude of mutuol respect and co- 
operation, the system could be seen as being almost ideal. But 
theory and practice here diverge. The Student Body Consti- 
tution has often been interpreted differently from vorious 
view points to result in conflicting opinions of the actual situa- 
tion at Clemson. 

This divergence leaves student leaders in a frustrating po- 
sition-unsure of their footing when in disagreement with the 
administration and aware that personal influence is often their 
most effective means of conscientiously representing our stu- 
dents. This often-times results in more attention being paid to 
diplomacy than to ideas, in a soft-touch approach being made 
in descent, and in doubts being expressed as to the real ef- 
fectiveness of the time spent in Student Government affairs. 
This is also the basis for the oft-heard student criticism that Stu- 
dent Government has no real power— even of influence— and 
that its members ore duped by a sense of authority into doing 
the leg-v/ork in programs favored by school authorities, while 
lacking the ability to effectively disagree or initiate ideas. 

The effective interest of Clemson's student leadership, the 
support of the student body for these leaders, and the working 
relationship between Student Government and our administra- 
tion would be greatly improved if the responsibilities of stu- 
dents as stated in the Constitution were clearly understood 
and respected by all concerned. The areas in which Student 
Government possesses autonomy must be clearly defined. 



Failure to make these distinctions has been the major weakness 
in our system for some time. 

A great improvement was made lastspring during the House- 
party regulations controversy when President Edwards stated 
that the administration recognized and supported the right of 
Clemson's students to full voice in the making of rules govern- 
ing their lives or conduct— and that the administration neither 
had an intention of, nor would in the future, issue regulations 
without first consulting the Student Senate. 

Now a similar clarification has been made in the area of 
student discipline and the Student Judiciary System. Ithos been 
established that recommending penalties for violation of any 
of the student regulations is definitely the responsibility of the 
student courts. Cases will be automatically referred to the stu- 
dent courts, where violations being punished by students is 
the compliment to regulations being made by students. 

Progress has also been mode recently toward improving the 
often lacking communications between students and administra- 
tors in other areas. A carefully planned program of Student 
Senators attending committee meetings of the administration is 
now being worked out to provide student representation on all 
standing and special committeesdealing with subjects of interest 
to students. Committees of the Senate will be coordinated with 
the administrative divisions of the University to enable the in- 
formation exchanged through these representatives to be put 
to good use. Student-administration understanding and respect 
seem to be at an all-time high. 

But Student Government is still not ideally established at 
Clemson. The overage student has little knowledge of the struc- 
ture or the function of the bodies involved, much less any 
idea of what goes on or who the leaders are. There is clearly 
a need for better communications between student leaders 
and other students. Elections are often poster battles, with 
little attention given to qualifications or ideas and equally as 
little participation in voting. On the other hand there are 
administrators who yet have the opinion that students should 
concern themselves only with their studies and feel that consid- 
ering students as being mature or deserving of responsibility 
is unnecessary condescension. Their conversations are heavy 
with generalities, postponements, and reminders of the ability 
of "the proper offices to look into these problems.' 

Still the main problem lies with the students. Evan a smooth- 
ly operating system housed in impressive offices and on per- 
fect working terms with all branches of the administration is 
of no good unless it has the active interest, support, and par- 
ticipation of the Student Body. Even if only to serve their 
personal interests, Clemson's students should be actively in- 
volved in an organization which has such responsibilities and 
potential. Students have no right to complain of the workings 
of either Student Government or the Administration if they but 
sit by idly, complaining during the occasional lulls in their 
apathy. 

It is only logical to assume that the trend toward student in- 
volvement will continue and that the desire for more voice 
and responsibility in campus affairs will increase with time. Re- 
quests to be heard will become demands to be reckoned with— 
and areas in which students now hove responsibilities will 
feel the pressure for more independence. How these ore re- 
ceived and whatthey may result in will, of course, depend upon 
many factors— but the most significant will be the adeptness 
with which today's responsibilities are managed. 

By JOHN MAHHEW 



r-^^. 




A 

SLIGHT 

MISCJILCULATION 

By MIKE PAHERSON 

Jack came out of his blackout with the 
feeling that he was somewhere he 
shouldn't be. There was a tremendous 
pressure on his bock, and he wasn'tquite 
sure what all those little gadgets in front 
of him were. As the blood came back 
to his head, however, he remembered 
that he was now an astronaut, and that 
this was his first mission in space. He 
remembered that the pressure on his 
back, which was responsiblefor his black- 
out In the first place, was due to the vio- 
lent combination of 40,000 pounds of 
oxygen with 30,000 pounds of hydrogen 
each minute. A grin came to his lips as 
he thought again of the amount of water 
he was leaving behind him. He re- 
acquainted himself with the myriad of 
dials, gauges andswitcheslnthe capsule, 
occasionally going over them with his 
eyes shut just for the hell of It. Suddenly 
a buzzer sounded, jerking him out of his 
playful mood. He was all business now, 
his eyes searching the board in a serious 
effort to locate the trouble. 

Back on earth another buzzer had 
sounded. The men In the control room 
found the trouble at about the same time 
that Jack did. It was a broken tube in 
the air-conditioning unit. Jock felt the ef- 
fects of the malfunction Immediately, but 
there was nothing he could do about it 
until the rockets cut off. 

"Be patient," sold the radio man. 
"You've only got five minutes or so to 
endure the heat. Then the rockets'll shut 
off and maybe you'll be able to get to 
the trouble, we hope." 

"You hope?" Jack said, a little testily, 
as he pushed the "send" button on his 
speaker. "It's not too hot," he heard him- 
self say. "I'll probably have it fixed In- 
side ten minutes and we can continue 
the mission like nothing ever happened." 
"No chance," retorted ground control, 
"With a malfunction that serious you'll 
come down after about one orbit." 

Jack wasn't exactly sure what he meant 
about coming down after about one orbit 
but just then the rockets cut off and he 

(Continued on page 14) 



A SLIGHT MISCALCULATION 

(Continued from page 13) 

turned around in the cramped little cap- 
sule and started looking for the break 
in the tube. He would have to go out- 
side the capsule to get to it, but a space 
walk had been scheduled for the flight 
anyway, so he was prepared to go out. 
His suit was air-conditioned but the unit 
in the suit would only lost about twenty 
minutes. The main unit had to be fixed. 
Jack fastened his helmet on, unstrapped 
himself, climbed into the airlockond shut 
the door. The pressure went down rapid- 
ly and soon the outer door opened. He 
climbed out hurriedly, not even stopping 
to marvel at the austere grandeur ot 
space. It was not easy for his clumsily 
gloved hands to manipulate the tools. 
He struggled to unfasten the repair 
panel, almost throwing it away after he 
got it off. 

"Easy boy," he muttered. "We got 
troubles enough without gettingcareless 
about this whole mess." 

By this time, the news commentators 
on eorthweregetting repetitive. Jackhad 
been outside the capsule for five minutes, 
and he was too busy to talk needlessly 
to ground control. When he got the tube 
fixed he would report; communications 
before then would waste his precious 
time. The newsmen, though they could 
see his point, didn't agree with him. 
They had to say something to the people 
whose programs they had "interrupted 
to bring you a special news bulletin." 
"We'll know any minute now whether 
the United States is going to lose an 
astronaut for the first time," they kept 
saying. Then they wouldsitfor a moment, 
looking intently off to one side. Suddenly 
staring back into the camera as if they 
had something important to say, they 
would repeat, "we'll know any minute 
now whether the United States is going 
to lose an astronaut. If he is lost he'll 
at least have the honor of being the first 
American in history to die in space." 

Ground control did n't particularly want 
Jack to have that honor since it wouldn't 
make them look too good, so they did 
the only thing they were able todo; they 
sat in front of their instruments and 
worried. Jack, the only person in the 
world able to help Jack in the slightest, 
was too busy to realize that he was 
unique in the history of aloneness. The 
tube had automatically sealed itself at 
each end, and the sealant had stuck the 
tube to its connections. One of the valves 
was hard to turn, and Jack had wrung 



off too many head bolts to think that it 
was wise to force a reluctant screw. He 
left the valve for the time being and went 
bock inside the capsule for a minute to 
get his Craftsman Space-Repair tool box 
in which he hoped there would be a re- 
placement for the tube. He rummaged 
around under the seat for his box and 
found it but through some technical over- 
sight the Hershey Bar he had brought 
along just in case had melted inside. He 
finally found the necessary tube undero 
sticky pile of wrenches, licked off the 
chocolate and clamped it securely to his 
belt. He then climbed back outside, 
anxious to get bock to work. 

Now the valve turned, although it still 
put up enough resistence to moke Jack 
highly uncomfortable. He thought he felt 
it seat, but he wasn't sure. Working on 
the assumption that the valve was not 
quite shut he jerked off the end of the 
tube. It came loose suddenly, just as he 
put that extra ounce into his effort. 

"Darn it all, fellow, you know better 
than that," he told himself as he lost his 
grip on the capsule and went flying off 
into space. "Now what if you didn't hove 
that safety line? You'd be up the old pro- 
verbial creek now." He hit the end of the 
safety line pretty hard. Hard enough, 
in fact, for the strain to break the line 
loose from his suit. His reflexes were 
fast enough for him to grab the end of 
the line before it was out of range and 
his gloves, still a little sticky from the 
chocolate, made it easy for him to scamp- 
er bock to the capsule. He wondered 
what would have happened in his oxygen 
supply had not beencontained in hissuit. 
Would the extra line have held him, or 
would it have broken too, leaving him 
with nothing but space to breath and no- 
where to go? 

Back at the capsule, he tied the safety 
line to his ankle with a secure granny 
knot and slid one end of the replacement 
tube over the free fitting. It went on 
smoothly, and he tightened it down with 
no trouble. What worried him was the 
next step. Since theother valve might not 
be closed, he would blow all his coolant 
if he didn't getthe new hoseon the fitting 
as soon as it was free. It wouldn't do for 
him to be floating around at the end of 
the safety line with the coolant spewing 
out, so he braced each elbow inacorner 
of the opening, took a firm grip on each 
tube and inhaled deeply. After pausing 
for a second to gather himself, he started 
moving. Keeping his elbows braced, he 
jerked the old tube off with his left hand 
and the thick coolant fluid shot out of his 
glove. Obviously the valve hadn't been 



closed all the way, and he had been push- 
ing against considerable pressure. The 
tube was on, though, and the clamp fol- 
lowed as soon as he could fasten it. 

He had just climbed back into the air 
lock after replacing the 'f;j^,t panel 
when he ^elt liie push of the retro- 
rockets. "Why do they wont to bring me 
down now?" he wondered. He pushed the 
"send" button as soon as he could get 
into the capsule. "Hey, what are you do- 
ing, anyway?" he said peevishly. 

Meanwhile, back on earth, everyone 
was going wild with anxiety. Jack hadn't 
reported since his safety line had 
snapped and with the safety line had 
gone the communications. The logical as- 
sumption was that Jack was in orbit in- 
dependent of the capsule, and that there 
was no way he could get back to it. The 
men in the control room had decided to 
bring the capsule down to see if they 
could find out exactly what had become of 
Jack, who had climbed into the air lock 
just in time to avoid getting left behind. 
When Jack's voice came booming across 
the radio, pandemonium broke loose. 
The men got up, cheering wildly and 
danced around the room, hugging each 
other with all their might. Almost im- 
mediately, though, they were back on 
station, working feverishly but still chat- 
tering excitedly. 

It took Jack a while to realize that he 
had been given up for lost. When he 
did, he accepted the fact and forgot it; 
astronauts couldn't afford to be emotion- 
al. Preparations for re-entry were rou- 
tine, but everything wasdouble-checked. 
Re-entry itself was routine. Splash-down 
was supposed to be within five miles of 
the carrier assigned to pick him up. 

The carrier captain was anxious to get 
his precious freight aboard. The man that 
had been given up for lost was doubly 
valuable now that he was safe, and the 
doctors and psychologists were scream- 
ing to see the fellow. The carrier's en- 
gines were strained to the utmost, push- 
ing the gigantic ship through the water 
at emergency speed to the point where 
Jack was supposed to land. 

The carrier pushed closer and closer 
to the rendezvous position and the scan- 
ners checked their radar screens to de- 
termine the capsule's exact point of re- 
entry. Jack was scheduled tosplash down 
approximately five miles to port of the 
carrier but through another slight tech- 
nical oversight, splash dovyn occurred 
some seventy-five yards off the bow of 
the ship. The capsule was spotted im- 

(Continued on page 49) 





'he Chronicle Reviens 

Drama ^tJeKson ^ 

'REVIEWED BY PAUL MGMiRI?^ 




Mhe University campus is presently 
blessed with three theatrical groups. ...The 
Clemson Little Theater. ...The Clemson 
Music Club....ond The Clemson Players.... 
all have given noteworthy performances 
and it is indeed a pleasure to hove wit- 
nessed all the action.... But, actors and 
actresses comprise only one phase of 
dramatics and there is a need, lam told. 



for more production and back stage 
people....it takes a vast amount ofworkto 
transform a dark, barren slaughter- 
house into c theater for the performing 
arts....all kinds of talent are required.... 
for those of us who are less talented, 
a soothing and enjoyable relief from 
such a malady can come by seeing the 
fruits of much labor....the performance. 



'Never Say No"... Dave Hunt ington, Bob Luckabaugh 





THE FANTASTICKS 



As a card carrying member of Clem- 
son University, it does my poor heart 
good to see unique innovations carried 
out by said organization....and housing 
a fine drama group in an abatoir is cer- 
tainly unique. ...even for Clemson...."lcan 
remember a night in".... February when 
the "roar of the grease paint and the 
smell of the crowd" thrilled to the sights, 
sounds, and songs of Clemson's very 
own Players.... Some of our friends 
shocked and thrilled us by their stage 
"presents" which is indeed imparted to 
only a few gifted individuals... .and all 
eight of DuVal's dramatists belonged in 
some way to this "gifted" group. ...There 
was a feeling of RAPE in the air, as the 
two fathers "never said no" of course 
"it depends on what you pay".... but the 
audience could tell that "soon its gonna 
rain"... .Into each life.... and some did.... 
Anyhow you get the point.... some great 
songs.. ..some good lines.... and "round 
and round" of laughters.... a FANTASTICK 
performance.... if you did not avail your- 
self....then may the vulture of culture 
peck out your eyes. 



"The Fantasticks." Jeannette Hicks, Rick Gilpin, Ed Porter 




*l am the Captain of the Pinafore...." Harold Coolidge, Chorus 




"Son, you're an Ass!!!" Ed Porter 



H. M. S. PINAFORE 

Her Majesty's Ship, Pinafore, has 
sailed into Clemson thanks to the talents 
and hard work of two salty groups, The 
Clemson Music Club....and the Clemson 
Little Theater....the shipboard romance of 
the daughter of Captain Corcoran.... 
"never, never, well, hardly ever".... Sir 
Joseph Porter...."and his sisters and his 
cousins and his aunts"....and Ralph Rack- 
straw, provides the triangulation of love 
....somehow, "things are seldom what 
they seem". ...points out "dear little, sweet 
little Buttercup", as she and ex-Captain 
Corcoran....Sir Joseph, "the ruler of the 
Queen's Navee" and cousin Hebe....Rack- 
straw and Josephine, the Captain's 
daughter. ...all pair up.... Oh joy and rap- 
ture unforeseen. ...a memorable evening 
with Gilbert and Sullivan...."on a saucy 
ship that is a beauty"....Now give three 
cheers, for one and all, for they certainly 
deserve a curtain call....for they certain- 
ly deserve another curtain call 

HAY FEVER 

There was a feeling of nostalgia.... "Hay 
Fever"....the return of theater....little m 
size, but by no means short on enter- 
tainment... .With the help of Noel Coward 
....(and little from the weekly journalistic 
excuse)....Mrs. Ann Bond directed her 
troupe through the hall of Cookham.... 
the house of David and Judith Bliss, 
whose separate lives crossed. ...where 
Simon and Sorel Bliss, their children, 
exchanged friends.... in the end, after 




"And so do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.. 
Eleanor Ging, Chorus. 



many friendly exchanges, with everyone 
in each others arms.. ..the visitors all 
leave... .leaving David to his writing and 
Judith to her playing. ...acting that is.... and 
leaving Clara in peace.... it was fun tosee 
the "grown-ups".... some Clemson pro- 
fessors.... respond to the call of the stage 
and the footlights.. ..to provide an un- 
usually exciting evening's entertainment 
....BRAVO, Little Theater....and welcome 
back. 



John Butler 





"My Hamlet, you remember...." Mario 
Lizono 




I am the Monarch of the seas. Doris Hill, John Butler 




THE MAN FROM 



« 



THE HICKORY- DXCKOMY- DOCK AFFAIR " 

Illustration by: John Fernandez 

CAST: 

Edward C. Roberts David "Pops" Wright 

Leopold Alto Marvin Sanders 

Piotr Zdravstvuiche George Ducker 

"38" Joan Reos 

John Koretstein . Loren Brown 

Deiores Linda Fowler 

1st BIRD Guard Tommy Tantillio 

2nd BIRD Guard Bobby Baker 

Story by R. G. Heller 

Photos by D. F. Collins & J. P. Gilreath 





From this carefully guarded installation, pol- 
icy decisions are formulated for C. L. E. M.- 
S. O. N., the Central Law Enforcement Move- 
ment for Stability, Order, and Non-violence. 
One of the world's best kept secrets is that 
Clemson University exists only to provide a 
guise for this international oraanization. 



This is Clemson University, known to millions as a respected in- 
stitution of higher learning. However, the procedings thattranspire 
within a certain underground complex are known to a select few. 




Mi 



Edward C. Roberts, Head of Policy Section, has just issued orders 
tor Leopold Alto and Piotr Zdrovstvuiche of Enforcement Section 
to report to him. 

Mr. Roberts: "We have reason to believe ourfriendsat B. I. R. D. 
are planning a major operation. You ore to infiltrate 
and destroy their organization. Agent 38 of Records 
Section will brief you." 



"38": "As you know, the Brotherhood of In- 
trigue, Revolution, and Destruction 
was formed to undermine the initia- 
tive of college students and thereby 
destroy the free world's leadership 
potential." 



20 





i LvvJT^ 



■38 



"This is John Karetstein, the head of B. I. R. D. 
operations in the United States. He's quite polit- 
ically influential. Currently, he's attempting to 
hold up building appropriations and generally 
hinder progress." 



"This girl is known only as Delores. She is the 
personal secretary and girlfriend of Karetstein. 
Her romantic inclinations moke her the apparent- 
ly weakest link in the B. I. R. D. chain. 





B C O K 

Si 

1 -^ r-- • 






"The C. L. E. M. S. O. N. organization 
has been entirely too successful lately. We 
shall destroy the symbol of their unity: 
Tillman Clock Tower. 



ACT II "MEANWHILE..." 

In a similar underground stronghold notfar away, a sim- 
ilar briefing is taking ' ace. 




n 



ACT III "A DATE WITH DELORES..." 

Piotr: "Leopold, why are you alwoys the one 
who interrogates the worn en agents?" 

Leopold: "Seniority, my dear Piotr. Now be 
a good Russianandgetmea bottle 
of Dom Perignon '46." 




Piotr: "I'm only '^kilometerfrom there now. 
I'll pose as a physical plant worker in 
order to get a leisurely lookoround." 



PI 


nw^Ks^^^^^^^^^ 


n^^HMfiyivr 


Wi 


f^V':^^^^^H 


^Hit'V 


mm 




^H^i^' 


i 


rS 


HHSHrAi 



15 




Leopold: "Open Channel C, Piotr, I've got the information we 
needed from Delores. They're going to blow up Till- 
man Clock Tower." 




ACT IV "THE CLOCK STRUCK TWO... " 

1st BIRD Guard: "He dims he'sfrom the P-Plont, but they never 

send one man to do a job." 
2nd BIRD Guard: "He even acts like he knows what he's doing.' 



16 



Leaving Delores under sedation, Leopold 
orrives at the Clock Tower. 




He unlocks the door with o standard-issue incedlary device. 




Leopold; "Don't worry, Piotr, Delores has olready called Mr. 
Roberts by now. They'll get us out." 



23 



</' 





« w 





Delores: "Those silly fools thought I'd leave 
you to help them. As long cts 
C. L. E. M. S. O. N. is full of idealists 
like them, we have nothing to worry 
about." 



Thus another attempt to foil B. I. R. D. has 
failed miserably. Their work will continue, and 
the frustrated college students will remain 
locked in the bonds of insipidness* 



ACT V "MONEY IS THICKER THAN...' 



) 





JANE BOHDE 



Queens College 



A photo essay by two of the 
Chronicle's wandering photog- 
raphy crew Russ Myers & Cam 
King. 



A boat named "Playmate," skiing, tree climbing, pelicans, hobby 
horses, music, writing, languages, etc., ad infinitum, these are 
hobbies; they keep Queens girls, such astheones featured above, 
busy. 

Forty-thousand concubines encircled by on "F troup" of purple 
pismires couldn't hove stayed cur photo-buffs from theirappointed 
rounds at Queens College. 

Actually, we're putting you on. Any resemblance thisarticle may 
hove to a girlie review is purely accidental— the guys were sup- 
posed to have photographed sports-cars. 

P. S.- U. S. Consumers Report says that Queens students prefer 
Clemson men two to one over Davidson girls. 



HOPE McMURRAY 



25 




27' 




1 • 



ANNE 



1 



MOLLUSCA 

I fancy myself a lowly clam 

Who's guise is like a stone, but sand 

Can easily slip into my shell 

And harm my tender soul 

By KURT PALOMAKI 
INQUIRY 

were you together, lonely in the crowd together 
touching moistly, 

clutching hands across eternities, 
lying in o bed in afternoons when all the world was up; 
did you kiss his eyes for what they saw or 
smell his hands for where they touched you, 
kiss each finger that had lain inside your life: 
were there brilliant hours in dawn's hollow hand 
when bodies quivered 

underneath the spell of newness 
and tongue against the teeth was hot and 
teeth against the heart bit fast and sweet. 

yes, we were there, together in the same war and 
laid in holes and same mud touching through the dark 

and we were young and prayed and blushed and 
touched again in tents and dreamed and 

our eyes saw no guns but kissed so they would never 
see the loss or blink in smoky fear 

and my fingers lay inside him once in 
that forgotten war, the last time that I loved him 

laid him down in that same mud to never 
see his soft face melt and leave a bonesmile 

hear his bones lie still where no heart stands 

yes we have been together, 

loved too well 
when all the world was up. 

By JAMES BAHLE 

HARVEST 

in not so long a time I shall be 

yesterday, an old man rotting 
underneath my treasures; 

smiling long and dimly as I sit 

at quiet twilight suppertables 
passing out the peas and grey remembrances 

In children's springmad empty heads. 

the longly smoke still lingers in the fire's wet mouth 
and lips will always wander through the stupid hills 

explaining, half-undoing feeble time, regretting 
this and that and how they were; 

and will you go and I will ask your tiny face and 
god to come with me on that last hour's romp, 

and shall I hesitate or shuffle tiredly In 
and lie down still, 

and will I go and will you go sweet Thomas 

not raging into that dead night, 
but stagger, weave uncertainly and cough 

against the dying of the light. 

By JAMES BAHLE 




BIRTHDAY PRESENT 



BY GARLAND G. GOODEN, JR. 

The valley was bathed in a late August 
hecf that lay close to the ground, suck- 
ing at the dry sand, and fom the cliffs 
the red earth glowed in the early after- 
noon sunlight. In the west the sondstone 
mesas rose silent and pensive against 
the white hot sky like the carcasses of 
monstrous dead animals strewn about 
the landscape under the dazzling light. 
Cactus and small scrub plants covered 
the dry ground, and deeply cut into the 
vegetation were the erratic paths of jack- 
rabbits »and field mice. Beneath every 
stone some smallcreotureawaited night- 
fall to escape the heat. 

In the partial shadow of a cliff stood o 
yellow-white mud hut which, except for 
the idle scratching of several chickens in 
the barren garden, seemed a vital but 
out-of-place portion of the stillness. The 
silence of afternoon sleep and wander- 



ing flies hung thickly about the house, 
flowing in at the door, sweeping the 
rooms unhurriedly, and escaping 
through the paneless windows. 

On a bench beside the door lay Miguel, 
his young face shiny with sweatand blue- 
black from the short stubble of hisbeard. 
His coarse tangled black hair drew a 
circle of sharp contrast againstthe bench 
which had been bleached out by years 
of sandstorm and sun. 

Miguel did not know that he was al- 
most twenty. Not even Mama was cer- 
tain of his age anymore. He was twelve 
when Papa had been thrown from the 
horse and killed while hunting mountain 
lions in the high country. Miguel re- 
membered his father and the dayswhen 
corn had made the field yellow, when 
vegetables grew in the garden, and 
breed was on the table. But they had all 



lost track after the first hard years. With 
the young ones to feed and clothe, Mama 
hod little time to remember. There was 
Pablo, who should be about seventeen, 
and Filipe, twelve. Then came Guillerme, 
ten, and Juanito, nine. Pablo, the next 
eldest, had taken the horse to the vil- 
lage market to buy meal, and it would 
be late when he returned. They took turns 
going to the village, Pablo oneweekand 
Miguel the next. Once, only Miguel had 
gone, but the excitement the village of- 
fered him had thinned with time, and now 
he was glad to have half the burden re- 
moved. 

Inside the house Mama sat gazing 
through the window and fanning herself 
slowly. She knew that Miguel was nearing 
the age of twenty, the man'sage. Though 

(Continued on page 32) 



31 



BIRTHDAY PRESENT 

(Continued from page 31) 

she understood little of birthdays, some- 
thing in the way the sun set between the 
red mesas reminded her that the time of 
year was approaching In which Miguel 
had been born. 

They had learned io expect nothing in 
celebration except the burning of a 
candle in the window to signify another 
year that had drifted past. Now even 
this formality was usually forgotten be- 
cause birthdays were seldom mentioned. 

Miguel lifted an arm to his head sleep- 
ily, and a fly rose droning from his 
stringy hair. He awoke when the sun 
moved past the porch roof and struckhis 
eyes. He then turned to lie with his head 
in the opposite direction. 

Mama emerged from the kitchen and 
shook him until he had risen to a sitting 
position and was squinting upather.She 
looked as if she had something important 
to say, so when she sat down beside him, 
Miguel listened with all the attention he 
could gather. 

Mama spoke quietly, and when she was 
not speaking she gazed out across the 
flatland to the base of the cliffs across the 
valley, not really noticing what she saw. 

"The cat has come back," she said even- 
ly. "Two hens are dead and we have no 
eggs." 

Miguel remained silent, waiting for her 
to continue. 

"Tomorrow you must go to the moun- 
tains and hunt it." 

Because of her controlled tone, Miguel 
did not at first grasp the importance of 
the task. He had never hunted the lions 
alone. Uusally they were killed by the 
farmers on the other side of the range. 

There had always been cats in the sum- 
mer, just as in the autumn it was rattle- 
snakes and in the winter, wolves. 
Miguel's papa had often told him oftheir 
slyness in evading hunters and attacking 
their horses by night. He had wanted to 
go with Papa the last time, but he had 
been too young for such a man's sport. 

Mama interrupted his thought. 

"You must be the one to go," she said. 
"You are the eldest, the one nearest a 
man." 

Miguel grinned. He had heard the 
words before, and always he asked the 
same half-amused question. 

"And when will I be a man?" 

"When you stop asking silly questions," 
Mama returned in a way thatwasalmost 
tradition between them. They sat quietly 
for a while, lefting the amusement sub- 
side. 



"When one becomes a man," Mama 
began, the serious tone pushing aside 
her humor, "it is the custom to give a 
gift, a token." Here she paused, almost 
afraid to ask him the question that hod 
worried her so long, because she already 
knew the answer. 

"What is it that you want?" 

Miguel looked down at his bare feet, 
as did Mama, though not so openly. He 
wanted a pair of bo<. ts; he had always 
wanted new boots for as long as he 
could remember. Mama knew that they 
had become more than a pair of boots; 
they were a symbol, though of what 
she wasn't quite sure. Nor did she think 
that he knew either. 

Mama was afraid that he might ask for 
them. He hod the right. 

Miguel thought of the new boots, of 
going to the market place with them on 
and of parading before the wine sellers 
and rug makers and sombrero vendors 
and silvercraftsmen with their crooked 
teeth and unshaven faces. He could see 
himself marching proudly through the 
noisy, crowded, sunlit streets with the 
busy people pausing to look andwonder 
and say, 'There is a man.' 

The picture was not a new one to 
Miguel, and it was passing beforehimos 
he spoke. 

"I want nothing. Mama." 

Relief showed in Mama's face, but in 
a way she was even more troubled, for 
she knew he wanted the boots, and she 
was sad because she could notgive them 
to him. She could see his shining face as 
he put them on for the first time, asking 
himself if this were not truly a dream. 

But it was impossible. She earned only 
so much during the harvest season, and 
what little money Papa had lefthad been 
used up long ago. 

Mama sat in silence for a while, and 
when it began to grow dark she rose and 
went inside. Theclay stove glowed bright- 
ly in the kitchen and Miguel could hear 
her humming softly to herself. 

Later, when they had eaten and the 
little ones were asleep, Pablo's horse 
could be heard entering the valley down 
by the dry stream bed. The hoofbeats 
resounded from the cliffs and entered 
the house. A coyote bayed outacross the 
ridge. There was a full moon. 

Mama woke Miguel before the sun 
rose. A cool wind was blowing up the 
canyon from the plains and the small 
bushes on the cliff wall whistled and 
danced in it. The sky was lighttothe east, 
awaiting the dawn that wouldsoon creep 
silently in upon the valley. 

Miguel stood at the door as Mama 



wrapped some food in a canvas cloth. 
When the time came to leave, he went to 
the peg from which his father's boots 
hung. One boot drooped lower than the 
other, and each time Miguel looked at 
them, he was reminded of the bullfight 
he had seen with Papa. As the memories 
rushed in upon him Miguel could again 
smell the heat and feel in his pulse the 
tense excitement that shivered through 
the arena. His heart seemed to stroke 
with the pendulum-like gait of the mat- 
adores in their calm and arrogant march 
to the president's box. Here was the un- 
leashed fury of the bull's first charge, 
the thythmic pounding grace of the 
passes, the tight momentary communion 
of bull and matador. Here was the pause, 
the facing off for the kill, the under- 
standing between aggressors that this 
was to be the final charge. Miguel could 
feel the proud and fearless poise of the 
master, and could see the hugemuscular 
bull, the savage power that laced its 
taunt massive body. His fingers tingled 
with the feel of the needle-like tips, the 
smooth polished curve of the horns. He 
watched the bull's anticipation in the 
measured flick of its tail, sow again the 
great testicles between the mighty thighs 
of the hind legs, stronghold of all that 
created the bull's maleness, one hang- 
ing just beneath the other. 

With a certain amount of reverence 
Miguel took down the boots and slipped 
his feet into them. To him this was the 
conjunction, the flowing together of the 
sure confident skill of the matador info 
the ponderous strength, the promise of 
mature potency with-in the bull. 

With- the food under his arm, Miguel 
picked up the rifle and shells, and went 
out to saddle the horse. The air was chill 
as he led the horse from the corral. 
Once mounted, he rode off toward the 
valley's mouth with the rifle across his 
lap. 

Miguel rode east until he left the val- 
ley, then turned south to follow the dry 
stream bed into the mountains. The sun 
was high as he entered the low foothills 
where the bushes grew tall and thick 
and streams gurgled quietly among 
them. 

He would work around the hills in a 
wide semi-circle, slowly doubling back 
toward the furrowed ridges, one of which 
formed the cliffs of his valley. 

As he rode, Miguel listened to the 

flapping of the boot soles from toe to 

arch. The sound was like that of a senile 

old man babbling stories which his mem- 

( Continued on page 37) 




ROBERT HUNTER 



THE CHRONICLE REVIEWS 



RUDOLPH E. LEE GALLERY 



By PAUL MORRIS 



I he Rudolph E. Lee Gallery is 
Clemson's only, therefore mod- 
ern, gallery, complete with fif- 
teen foot high ceilings, creative 
lighting, a clock thatdoesn'twork, 
and dual entrances (one ofwhich 
is seldom open). It is inthisspace 
at the School of Architecture that 
persistent artists have been per- 
sisting persistently. ..the Chron- 
icle—hallowed be its name— is 
about to embark upon a journey 
in pictures and words (like LIFE) 
of what you missed at the Gal- 



lery. ..shed no tears, but be ye 
ever mindful that there is more 
culture in Clemson than just 
AGRI-culture. 

Much attention this year has 
focused on the Orient, not to be 
out done by the likes of govern- 
ment, the Gallery opened itsfirst 
show of the season with a dis- 
play called The Modern Decora- 
tive Arts of Japan. There were 
about eighty pieces of art, 
ceramics, metal work, lacquer 
ware, and wood work, all very 



well crafted and stamped "made 
in Japan." 

With the advent of Environ- 
mental Painting and Robert Hunt- 
er, ye old Gallery became a 
plastic paradise of poly-foam, 
plexiglas, and epoxy resins. The 
combinations of these modern 
materials gave a newness of life 
as well as color and character to 
the free standing almost sculp- 
tural Hunter paintings. 

(Continued on page 34) 



33 




THE RUDOLPH LEE GALLERY 

(Continued from page 33) 

The third show of the 65-66 
season featured a display of re- 
cent Sculptureby John Acorn. Mr. 
Acorn expresses his interpreta- 
tions of nature and hfe in welded 
and twisted metal, imparting to 
these skeletal structures a warm 
life-like quality not usually as- 
sociated with steel and wire 
mesh. 

From welded metal sculpture 
to the metalic photographic 
plates of RobertSmeltzer, a News 
Piedmont photographer, Smelt- 
zer's camera magic peeked into 
the world of shades, shadow, and 
scintilating expression to reveal 
the true artistry of photography. 

Thus, at this writing, a retro- 
spective look at the fascinating, 
FREE, and fanciful world of the 
Rudolph E. Lee Gallery. 




RIAD JOHN ACORN 



FISH 



MINORU SEKI 




'AFTING SEED 
OHN ACORN 



I I 




ENVIRONMENTAL SCULPTURE 
ROBERT HUNTER 





UNTITLED 
JOSEPH ZIMBROLT 





THE MARCA-RELLI ONE 
SAMIA A. HALABY 



DANGLING 
KINPEI BAIZAN 



BIRTHDAY PRESENT 

I Continued Jrom page 32) 
ory, in drawing them forth, twisted and 
distorted, creating a pointless, unending 
reverie. His feet sweated inside the boots 
where the leather met his skin, and 
though he was proud to wear them, the 
moisture created an unpleasant sen- 
sation along his heel and calf. 

In the late afternoon Miguel decided 
to find a place to pass the night. Ahead 
of him he sow a high rock slope at the 
crest of which stood a flat-topped bare 
looking acacia tree. Behind the tree was 
a grassy space where the horse could 
graze, and Miguel tied him to the tree 
with a long piece of rope. Miguel un- 
saddled the horse, placing the blanket on 
the stone, with the saddle at one end. 
He then went down the slope to gather 
firewood. 

By nightfall he had built a small fire 
and cooked the pieces of rabbit Mama 
had packed. He sat upon the saddle os 
he ate, watching the moon rise like an 
egg shell broken against the black ir- 
regular peaks. Soon he put out the fire 
with his boot and lay down upon the 
blanket, listening for a while to the 
tapping of the horse's hooves on the 
stone. 

The cat would know by the fire that he 
had come. Miguel seemed to sense its 
presence in the gloomy half-lit world 
created by the moon. Every sound be- 
came apawsnapping twigs, every rushof 
breeze the graceful curving arc of the 
powerful body descending upon him 
from the heights. Each star was a glitter- 
ing menacing eye that waited patiently 
for him to sleep. 

Miguel moved his fingers until they 
touched the hard cold steel of the rifle 
borrel, and part of the daylight's ration- 
ality returned to him with the touch. The 
cat would only want his horse. 

In the morning he headed northwest, 
riding until the sun had reached its apex 
and begun to descend before him. From 
the crest of a hill he saw the ridge of 
cliffs over his valley and guessed their 
distance to be five miles.Miguel then be- 
gan a systematic search of the sand gath- 
ered between the stone hills ond in the 
stream beds. In the late afternoon he 
found the first tracks faintly impressed 
in a small deposit of silt in the rocks. 

The cat was not a big one, but it seemed 
to know how to conceal its trail by keep- 
ing to the rough, hard ground where 
tracks would not be left. Miguel began to 
follow in their general direction, finding 



where the cat had been forced to cross 
wet sand on the banks of a stream.. 

He followed until the sunsetforced him 
to stop about a mile to the west, and as 
he lay again on the blanket he could feel 
the almost spiritual presence, the lurk- 
ing danger surrounding him, watching 
him and questioning. 

Miguel was nearly asleep when the 
horse whinnied and stamped. He sat up 
quickly, the rifle in both hands, and listen- 
ed. Hearing nothing but the breeze wan- 
dering through the low shrubs. Miguel 
stood up and walked silently to the horse, 
stroked the big neck and mane, and felt 
the flesh quiver. His familiar touch 
quieted the horse, and Miguel whispered 
to him. 

'It is you the cat wonts,' he said to the 
horse. 'You must be the bait, old one. It 
cannot be helped.' 

Miguel sot bock against a rock nearby 
with the rifle across his knees and fell 
asleep. 

A second whinny awoke him. Dawn in 
its secret way was slipping silently upon 
him, coloring the landscape with its 
strange twilight gray. Darkness still lay 
heavily upon the hills, and Miguel sot 
listening as the light grew. 

The cat was a dark shadow cresting a 
hill to his left. It seemed to be watching 
him from the filmy protection of the 
dreary morning clouds. Sitting where he 
was, Miguel slowly raised the rifle until 
the boll and notch hesitated unsurely on 
the shoded figure. He stopped breathing 
as his finger closed nervously on the 
trigger. The horse stamped. Moist chill 
air touched distractingly at his face. 

His shoulder jerked as a loud crash 
struck out at the hills, echoing among 
them and losing itself along their thin 
jagged ridges. Miguel sow a small cloud 
of dust and rock chips fly up beside the 
cat, and heard the bullet whine awoy. 
His aim had gone wide. 

The cat jerked its body into a crouch 
and screamed as the bullet smashed 
against the rock. Now it raced along the 
crest and leapt to a second hill, behind 
which it disappeared. 

Miguel quickly saddled the horse and 
began to follow. He trailed the co* into 
the afternoon, finding traces of blood o.n 
the ground. The cat had been hit by a 
splinter of rock and would not go far un- 
less pushed. 

When the afternoon began to grow 
toward dusk, Miguel tied the horse and 
began to follow the path on foot. He 
kept to the high ground as much as pos- 
sible. The cat was on the run now, care- 
less, perhaps desperate. The drops were 



frequent stains in the sand and they 
eventually led him to the opening of a 
narrow high-walled ravine. It was a per- 
fect trap. 

His father's boots were flapping with 
each step, admitting sand thatcut into his 
skin. Miguel reached down and removed 
the boots, tying the laces together. He 
slung them around his neck and entered 
the ravine. 

The boots tapped gently at his chest 
with a dead slow rhythm, and words 
poured through his head senselessly. 

'You ore the bait, now,' he thought 
over and over. 'You are the bait." 

The shaded sand was cool and itground 
upon itself beneath each step, clinging 
to the sweat on his feet. His eyes were 
raised to the dark red walls above him 
where, here and there drops of water 
trickled after each other down the rock. 
Beads formed above his lip anddroplets 
froze his side. Tiny rocks in the sand be- 
gan to bite sharply into the tender skin 
of his arches. 

Miguel hung close to the rock, crouch- 
ing and peering around each turn before 
going on, inching his way along the sandy 
floor, his thighs and chest tense. Blood 
droplets formed dark depressions in the 
silt where the cat hod passed. 

At the next bend the ravine opened in- 
to a circular cavern with an open roof. 
The sun swept down at on angle, lighting 
one wall and most of the sandy bottom. 
Ledges formed tiers around the steep 
rock, and the light breeze blowing across 
the open pit brushed downward, sweep- 
ing the stone and stirring the sand with 
a faint sound of frenzied cheering. 

He saw the cat perhaps thirty feet 
away, lying on its side and licking its 
wounded flank. 

Miguel shuddered as a shocking chill 
reached down from his neck along his 
spine and made a hard fist in his groin. 
The hair on his brown arms rose as he 
lifted the rifle slowly. Again the ball 
rested securely in the white fur of the 
cat's chest; again he felt the nervous 
twitch of his finger on the trigger. His 
palm sweated against the smooth worn 
curve of the rifle stock. The boots of his 
father hung heavily on his chest and the 
laces cut painfully into his neck. As 
Miguel began to crouch, the rifle barrel 
scraped against the rock. In one swift 
movement the cat was erect and tense. 
There was a single instant of surprise 
and terror before it saw him. Miguel's 
heart exploded upward as he met the 
cat's eyes, and as it began to charge, 

(Continued on page 42) 



The Chronicle Reviews 

Games People Play 



REVIEW BY PAUL MORRIS 




GAMES PEOPLE PLAY 
By DR. ERIC BERNE M. D. 

"A game is an ongoing series of com- 
plimentary ulterior transactions pro- 
gressing to a well defined predictable 
outcome." These are the words of Dr. 
Eric Berne, 55, a social psychiatrist whose 
new book. Games People Play, has 
caught on to be a "surprise bestseller" 
having sold over 83,000 copies and ris- 
ing skyward on all non-fiction book lists. 
(Time for instance has placed its rank as 
high as number two at one point.) 

Dr. Berne's anthology of games is not 
a hostesses handbook for party proceed- 
ings nor a new version of Hoyle, but a 
comprehensive study of the irrational 
human behavior which Dr. Berne pur- 
ports to be the gome the individual is 
playing. 

In recfding such a book one con, like 
a puzzle, fit his friends and himself into 
Berne's pattern .of^life, which i^ reveal- 
ing, humorous and exciting all at the 
same time. It is this stylistic grace that 
has saved otherwise professionally cKjII 
material and transformed it into an un- 



derstandable, brief (only 186pages)and 
diogramatic guide to people and their 
cranial idiosyncrasies. 

Dr. Berne has travelled on his poker 
winnings, to over thirty countries dis- 
covering the rules to this human Olym- 
pics. The collection of 101 games is com- 
plete as of 1 962 and includes for example 
such broad classifications as Life, Marital, 
Sexual, and Underworld games, which 
are in turn further classified. Sexual 
games (the broad classification) are 
broken down into Let's You and Him 
Fight, Perversion, Rape, The Stocking 
Game, and Uproar. Each one of these is 
a game whose title alludes the character 
of their rules. Uproar for instance is a 
game played in many households be- 
tween father and teen age daughter. 
Father is the domineering type and 
mother is sexually inhibited, "father 
comes home from work and finds fault 
with daughter, who answers impudently; 
or daughter may make the first move by 
being impudent, whereupon father finds 
fault. Their voices rise, and the clash be- 
comes more acute. The outcome depends 
on who has the initiative. Thereare three 



possibilities: (a) father retires to his bed- 
room and slams the door (b) daughter 
retires to her bedroom and slams the 
door (c) both retire to their respective 
bedrooms and slam the doors. In any 
case, the end of a game of "Uproar" is 
marked by a slamming door." The out- 
come of this thesis, states Dr. Berne, 
"is a distressing but effective solution to 
the sexual problems that arise between 
fathers and daughters in certain house- 
holds." He further states the complica- 
tions that arise when variable factors 
such as different socio-economic family 
groups ore involved. 

The names of the-gamesare humorous 
and indeed the situations themselves 
lend humor in some cases, butallgames 
ore arranged in this clearly stated man- 
ner, title, thesis, aim, roles, antithesis. 
This clear definition of even the most 
complex games plus the colloquial titles 
interject both interest and understand- 
ing to a subject matterthatcould become 
boring and un-interesting to the layman. 
In this area Dr. Berne has been most 
perceptive. 



The Chronicle Interviews 

The Original Piano Quartet 



William Gunther, Adam 

Edward Edson, and David Poliakine 



INTERVIEWBY PAUL MORRIS 

A few weeks ago the Original Piano 
Quartet deigned to perform at Clem- 
son, and the Chronicle.... eager to meet 
anyone from the world outside....de- 
scended upon them. And what an inter- 
view. Although completely impromptu, 
we were met with mutual enthusiasm. 
One of the quartet did confess, however 
that they usually get the third degree.... 
we do hope we weren't that gruelling. 



For us it was a chance to find out what 
makes a group of their unique ability 
tick. Here is what followed on thatdrizzly 
February day, just hours before the con- 
cert.... 

CHRONICLE: 

Not long ago I listened to one of your 
recordings in which youfeatured Chopin 
standards. Somehow they did not come 



out standard but were greatly em- 
bellished and quite exciting. How do you 
decide which pieces you shall play, is it 
arbitrary....? 

OPQ: 

We talk it over and talk it over some 
more. We decide what would be good for 
us....for our sound. (Gunther) 

(Continued on page 46) 








fC# 



MUSEUM 



a collection of elevating verse tvritte^ 

GREAT MASTER^ 

for the education and delectation of 



The Rubens Gallery 

Statues in niches, 
And big-breasted bitches 
With sweet dimpled foces, 
And lots of nude places. 
Yards of bright color 
And fluttering drapery, 
No sadness or dolor. 
Occasional ropery. 
Six times natural sizes. 
All subjects presented 
From "Paris with Prizes" 
To "Bacchus, Contented". 



The Impressionists 

Oh smeat it and smudge it 
And dab it on thick. 
With a knife, with a trowell 
With a good heavy stick. 
What you want is the "feeling". 
The "moment", the "ropture"; 
Its Impressions you're stealing 
That you're trying to 'capture". 
Oh light is the essence 
And color's the reason. 
And each to the other 
Resolves in due season. 



mmw 



['^ 



Oh Rubens, for volume you never had 

double. 
Plus making a Paint Pot of cash for your 

trouble. 



Do not crowd the picture. 
For the very best viewing; 
The sensation renewing 
Of SPRING as it's brewing 
Or SUAAMER while stewing. 
Stand twenty yards off. 

The French Gents who painted 
This stuff in the Eighty's 
Were Dogs with the ladies. 
They made an Impression, 
It's there, hung, to see. 
And everyone likes it. 
But me. 



^<^X^ 



iiuviii'-s- 




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7 



IHOUGHTS 

fter looking upon the works of 

OF ART 

fcople of Culture and Refinement 



The English Portrait Gallery 

All of these people 

Were either related. 

Or the artists were lazy. 

which Ithink 

Cause the backgrounds are hazy. 

But as previously stoted, 

If they're not all cousins 

Aboveboard and legal. 

Then someone's great-grondpo, 

NMio was probably Regal, 

Made mistakes by the dozens. 

It's considered great style 

To have several, like these 

In your own family free. 

So your helpmate can smile 

NMien her friends come to tea 

And point at 

The "Reynolds" or "Roeburn" 

Or "Gainsborough" portrait 

Of "ancestor George, who looks just like 

My George, except for the bald spot". 

NMien she knows very well 

We bought the damn thing at an auction 

Last summer in Maine. 

If the English paid very much 
For these pictures of Ladies and such 
My opinion of them as o Nation 
Gets a drastic deflation. 




The Italian Primitive Gallery 

In this room alone, there are seventeen 
Virgins 
And Child, not to mention 
A full blown Ascention, 
Three shots of St. Stephen 
And the St. with the arrows 
All through him, and even 
A very dark painting 
Of some woman fainting. 
Or maybe she's dying; 
One can see that the artist was trying 
To show real deep passion 
In his primitive fashion. 
Most of these hove gold backing. 
And every one's cracking. 

The Lombards and Tuscans 
and Pisons and such 
May be more to most people, 
to me they ain't much. 



FANTS CAMERA SHOP 



INC. 



Dealers in Photographic Products 
for over 50 years 




105 E. Whitner Street 

Anderson, South Carolina 

Phone 224-0707 




i^ 






HVCEA-MARK 7 

Uses: Present 

The Mark 7 is primarily an air-cooled, 
semi-automatic, hand held, anti-per- 
sonnel weapon. (Humanely nonlethal in 
most cases.) However, recent break- 
throughs in technology hove allowed 
the Mark 7 to be used in the disguise 
of inedible foodstuffs and their trans- 
formation into comestibles suitable-for 
human consumption, (though sadly in- 
effectual on mule or horse flesh.) 

Due to the experimental nature of the 
Mark 7, its use has been denied all but 
a few select operations, however, a 
great future is seen for it in these: 

Proposed Uses: 

Spreading oil slicks from Aston Martin 
skateboards. 

Hut-sized napalm dispensers for the 
Vietnamese. 

Storage bins for English export petrol- 
eum to Rhodesia. 

Deodorant squirter for mid-huddle re- 
lief. 

Water ration dispensers for New York. 

Power Source: Manually applied 
Lubricant: Elbow grease (SAE 30) 
Engine Type: Pneumatic suction sump 

pump 
Cycles: Two (squirting and not squirting). 
Efficiency: 87.9 percent Engine — Rela- 
tively high viscosity friction 
factor 12.02 percent. 
Effective Ranges: Verticle: 9.3 in. 

Horizontal: 4 ft. 6.2 in. 
Max. 45 degrees tra- 
jectory: 6 ft. 2.4 in. 
Rate of Fire: Incalculable (Digital fa- 
tigue varies greatly per 
individual). 
Operational Hazard: Great, (poor 
choice of target 
area may re- 
sult in con- 
tusions, abros- 
ions and lac- 
erations about 
the head and 
body). 
DANGER 

When handling munitions avoid contact 
with skin or eyes, wash affected areas 
with warm water and soap, induce vomit- 
ing (most probable result of HVCEA use 
anyway.), call physician 



MustaEI 



Editors Note: - sufficient intestinal fort 
tude to confront.... 

CONTENTS HAS TO BE MUSTERED 
Technical Consultant 
Tim McNeight 



(Filfi under HVCEA-M7-NEWBY) 



43 




BIRTHDAY PRESENT 

(Continued from page 37) 
he fired. 

He levered anothershell into the cham- 
ber and fired again. A very thin veil of 
blue smoke spread rapidly around the 
enclosure and disappeared before he 
could move. Faint fumes of powder 
seemed to be searing his lungs. Thecat's 
scream still rattled in his ears, and his 
temples pounded with the sight of its 
straining body. 

The cot lay dead on its side, blood 
trickling from a long graze on its shoulder 
and dripping from its chest. Miguel's 
stomach contracted to a roaring hollow- 
ness, and he looked up through the en- 
closing walls of the arena to where the sky 
had already begun to turn red. 

Miguel rose with the sun and beganthe 
ride back home. He had to retrace his 
way through the hillsaround totheopen- 
ing of his valley's cliffs. At late evening 
he sat atop the horse on a small rise 
before making the final descent. He saw 
the little house blending into the dusk, 
smoke curling warmly from the clay 
chimney. It seemed so familiar, yet so 
vaguely alone and new among the jack- 
rabbits and field mice, so appropriate 
with the hawks and swallows nesting in 
the cliffs. 

Miguel rode unhurriedly down toward 
the house, noticing as he passed the 
strange new intimacy of each well-known 
object; the animal paths in the under- 
growth, the spring in the canyon, thegar- 
den of dirt. 

He unsaddled the horse, turning it out 
to the flatland, and approached the 
house. In the window acandle sputtered. 

Mama sat inside looking unusuafly 
worn, sad in a nostalgic way, as if some- 
thing she had dreamed of long before 
had come to pass and found her un- 
prepared. 

Miguel's pride would not let him speak 
first. He went to the wall peg, tookoff the 
boots, and" tied the laces together. Mama 
watched him closely. 

Then, with resignation in her voice and 
the hesitancy of apprehension, she 
spoke. 

"The boots," she said, "I could not get 
the boots." 

Miguel stood before the peg, his fath- 
er's boots gently swinging by their laces 
from his extended fingers. He replaced 
them carefully on the wall, arranged 
them to hang just so and stood looking 
at them for a moment. 

Then he turned to Mama. 



"Are you a little boy or a little girl?" 
"Sure. What else?" 

A little boy was sitting on the corner 
with a cigarette in his mouth and a flask 
in his hand when an elderly lady came 
by. 

"Goodness, sonny," she exclaimed 
"why aren't you in school?" 

"Hell, lady, I'm only three." 

Said the two old maids to the magician, 
"Cut out the hokus and pokus!" 

Have you heard about the dehydrated 
Frenchman— Pierre? 

"Did you follow my advice about kiss- 
ing your girl when she least expected 
it?" asked the sophisticated college sen- 
ior of his younger fraternity brother. 

"Oh, hell," said the fellow with the 
swollen eye, "I thought you saidwhere." 

The six fraternity men came stagger- 
ing out of the last Happy Hour and started 
to crowd into the car for the ride back 
to the house. One of them, obviously 
the house president, took charge of the 
situation. 

"Herbie," he said, "you drive. You're 
too drunk to sing." 

Johnny: Mother, may Igooutand play? 

Mother: With all those holes in your 
pants? 

Johnny: No, with the kids across the 
street. 

A transatlantic liner sank and the only 
two survivors were a British matron and 
her parrot. They floated in the ocean for 
several days, clinging too piece of wood. 
Finally the parrot tried to strike up a 
conversation. 

"Say Mum," he said; "how's yer'ole?" 

"Oh shut up!" the lady snapped back. 

"Mine too," replied the parrot, 'must 
be the salt water." 

A New England cemetery epitaph 
reads: Here lies an atheist. All dressed 
up and no place to go. 

Have you heard about the new electric 
razor that shaves feathers! It's called the 
Chicken Schick. 



"Mama," he began, a portion of this 
strange new pride evident in his voice, 
"Mama, it's all right. I will not need them 
for a while." 




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45 



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THE ORIGINAL PIANO QUARTET 

(Co7itinued from page 39) 

Of course you always have to consider 
the public. We must give them enough 
first of v^hat they know and then some- 
thing new. (Garner) 

We have about five different programs 
that we play.... when we appear for the 
first time we play number one.... second 
time we play number two, complete 
change... .(Edson) 
CHRONICLE: 

Do you constantly add to your reper- 
toire? 

OPQ: 

Yes.... yes... .we add all the time. (Gar- 
ner) 
CHRONICLE: 

Do you have a contemporary com- 
poser that is a favorite... .one maybe that 
is particularly suited to your styleorone 
that you all enjoy playing? 

OPQ: 

If you consider Lecuona contemporary 
....(Edson) 

Gershwin.... George Gershwin....(Gun- 
ther) 

And Darius Mileau, he has composed 
a piece especially for us.... (Garner) 

We have recorded a l.ecuona album 
....the complete Lecuona works.... (Edson) 

CHRONICLE: 

How have you developed such out- 
standing synchronization....? 
OPQ: 

We sometimes wonder... .(Edson) 

It's a very hard job.... years long,... we 
don't even look at each other when we 
play.... it's a feeling you can't explain, 
it comes with time. (Garner) 

We practice.... we work a lot.... and we 
fight a lot....(Gunther) 

Then in the conversation Adam 
Garner, a short little man began wiggling 
in his seat as if he had some thingspecial 
to say, so we asked if there was any in- 
cident in their worldly traveiswhich they 
found particularly interesting or amus- 
ing. Sure enough from the corner of the 
group, in a slight Polish accent. Garner 
told of the time during a spring tour when 
middle C suddenly disappeared from his 
keyboard. "Of course I played it until 
intermission." Now you have to remem- 
ber that the tuner hod worked all day 
tuning the four pianos and afterward he 
had had a few drinks. But none the less, 
in spite of his tottering state he was able 
to replace the broken hammer.... with 
chewing gum. 

CHRONICLE: 

In regard to incidents during perform- 



ance.... Victor Borge has said that one time 
he couldn't get out of one section and 
played it over four or five times. Has 
this ever happened to any of you? 

OPQ: 

Hardly.... We had an experience once 
when one of the fellows forgot his music 
to Ravel's Bolero. We knew he didn't 
have the music, so when his part came, 
suddenly we three played his.... the 
dubious glory came when the critics 
wrote.... "there was never such awonder- 
ful performance of the Bolero." (Garner) 
CHRONICLE: 

A few weeks ago Time magazine came 
out with an article on music and quoted 
several musicians. Glenn Gould laid the 
bomb by saying that in forty years, the 
American concert as we know it today 
will not exist, being out dated by con- 
temporary recording techniques. What 
are your reactions to this comment. ...is 
it tongue in cheek perhaps? 

OPQ: 

I don't think the concert will be re- 
placed. (Garner) 

No substitute. ...(Poliakine) 

There is nothing like it. It's like life. 
(Gunther) 

They thought this would happen with 
regards to television... .people would nev- 
er go to another movie.. ..yet they are 
flocking to the movies.... (Edson) 

CHRONICLE: 

We read that two of you played other 
instruments... .one the French horn, an- 
other the violin, have you kept up with 
these instruments? 

OPQ: 

There was a mistake in the school 
paper. Mr. Mittler played the violin, 
but he is no longer with us.... instead we 
have Mr. Poliakine.... (Garner) 

No I gave up the French horn long 
ago.... (Edson) 

I used to play the French horn also, 
a long time ago.... I gave it up to date 
girls.... (Gunther) 

After this delightful exchange with 
these four friendly and witty artists, we 
tagged along down to the stage to catch 
a few minutes of their practice session. 

"A little louder I can't hear you!!".... 
"Don't push. "...."Everything is too loud." 
...."Are you using your elbow. "...."Come 
on!" 

These were just a few of the remarks 
hurled at each other during the course 
of the rehearsal....indeed a pleasant af- 
ternoon for us. In the evening, a bril- 
liant performance for all. 



Carson's Symbolics 



Boys, I H^oc T>4EeES fl 
SPy Amom us . 



W(XY POPCOftiv), WHflr/TSMOn 




you s^y r(9G< orr 

f*?0«E JWTES Sl/v/CE 

vousroPPEj) SP7o»r/n)e? 




IF ITS fl SfCCEr 

you leccoGrviiE 
EvHieVBODy ? 



Ti8RZf)/V j! 



47 




We've made some changes in the 
freshman theme penalty sheet. 



A SLIGHT MISCALCULATION 

(Continued from page 14) 

mediately and the captain, anxious to 
avoid a collision, made several major 
adjustments on the control board. In the 
excitement, however, someone's hand 
accidentally hit the controls, sending a 
"full speed ahead" signal to the engine 
room. The carrier's provt/, lifted by a 
swell, came down firmly on the capsule. 
A few bubbles erupting on the surface 
were all that could be seen by the 
startled carrier crew. 

"Control center," said the bewildered 
captain, speaking somewhat sodly into 
the microphone, "we have made con- 
tact with the capsule." 



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is called "Viet Nam Roulette". You enlist 
in all three branches of the service simul- 
taneously, burn your draft card and 
write a letter to Lyndon Bird telling him 
that you have o strange attraction to 
other boys and that you think he is a 
capitalist pig. All those not drafted im- 
mediately receive a 1-Y deferment be- 
cause of personal reasons and chance 
to join Berfrand Russell's new movement 
to abolish gunpowder. 



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A Special In vi tat ion To All Students 



49 




LYNCH 'S DRUG 

BAND AIDS 
AND THINGS 




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51 





CALENDAR 


FOR 1 966 




JAN 




APR 




JUL 




OCT 


S M T W T F S 


2 3 4 5 6 7 8 
9 10 1112 13 14 15 

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 
30 31 


3 4 5 6 7 8 9 

10 1112 13 14 15 16 

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 


3 4 5 6 7 8 9 

10 1112 13 14 15 16 

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 
31 


2 3 4 5 6 7 8 

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 


FEB 


6 7lil^0l1l=2 
13 14 15 16 17 18 19 
20 2.22 232425 26 


MAY 


J 9^'0l-l 1^21*374 
29 3031 


AUG 


12 3 4 5 6 

7 8 9 10 1112 13 
14 15 16 17 18 19 20 
21 -!2 73 24 25 26 27 
28 25 30 31 


NOV 


12 3 4 5 

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 

20 2122 23 24 25 26 
27 28 29 30 


MAR 


12 3 4 5 

13 14 15 1^ 17 18 19 
i?M§303t"^* 


JUN 


567H.V'\ 
12 13 14 IS 16 17 18 


SEP 


12 3 

1112 13 14 15 16 17 


DEC 


4 5 6 7 J i ll 
1112 13 14 15 16 17 

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 




GOD I S DEAD IN GEO RGIA 

Eminent Deity Succumbs During 

Surgery— Succession in Doubt 

As All Creation Groans 

LBJ ORDERS FLAGS AT HALF STAFF 



Special to The Nfw York Times 
ATLANTA, GA., Nov. 9 God. 
creator of the universe, princi- 
pal deity of the world's Jews, 
ultimate reality of Christians. 
and most eminent of all divini- 
ties, died late yesterday dunng 
major surgery undertaken to 
correct a massive diminishinR 
influence. His exact age is not 
known, but close friends esti- 
mate that It greatly exceeded 
that of all other extant beings 
While he did not. in recent 
years, maintain any fixed abode, 
his house was said to consist 
of many mansions. 

The cause of death could not 
be immediately determined, 
pending an autopsy, but the 
deity's surgeon. Thomas J. J. 
Altizer, 38. of Emory University 
In Atlanta, indicated possible 
cardiac insufBciency Assisting 
Dr Altizer in the unsuccessful 
surgerywereDr Paul van Buren 
of Temple University. Philadel- 
phia: Dr William Hamilton of 
Colgate - Rochester. Rochester. 
NY: and Dr Gabriel Vahanian 
of Syracuse University. Syra- 
cuse. NY 

Word of the death, long ru- 
mored, was oflScially disclosed 
to reporters at five minutes be- 
fore midnight after a full day 
of mounting anxiety and the 
comings and going of ecclesi- 
astical dignitaries and members 
of the immediate family At the 
bedside, when the end came, 
were, in addition to the attend- 
Ingsurgeons and several nurses, 
the Papal Nuncio to the United 
States, representing His Holi- 
ness, Pope Paul VI, Vicar of 
Christ on Earth and Supreme 
Pontiff of the Roman Catholic 
Church: lakovos, Archbi.shopof 
North and South America, rep- 
representinK the Orthodox 
Churches, Dr Eugene Carson 
Blake, Stated Clerk of the 
Presbyterian Church in the 
USA, representing the World 
Council of Churches, predomi- 
nantly a Protestant institution: 
Rabbi Mark Tannenbaum of 
New York City, representing 
the tribes of Israel, chosen 
people, according to their faith. 
of the deceased: The Rev Wil- 
liam Movers. Baptist minister, 
representing President John- 
son, the 3rd Secretary of the 
Soviet embassy In Trinidad, 
representing theUnion of Soviet 
Socialist Republics: and a num- 
ber of unidentified curious by- 
standers. 

Unable to be In Atlanta owing 
to the pressure of business at 
the second Vatican Council. 
now in session, the Pope, in 
Rome. said, in part "We are 
deeply distressed for we have 
suffered an incalculable loss. 



The contributions of God to 
the Church cannot be meas- 
ured, and It IS difficult to im- 
agine how we shall proceed 
without Him ■ Rumors swept 
through the Council, meeting 
under the great vaulted dome 
of St Peters, that, before ad- 
jniirning the Council in fie- 
cember. the Pope will proclaim 
God a saint, an action, if taken, 
that would be whollv without 
precedent in the history of the 
Church Several aged women 
were reported to have come 
forward with claims of mirac- 
ulous cures due to God's inter- 
vention One woman, a 103 
year old Bulganan peasant, is 
said to have conceived a son 
at the very in.slant God ex- 
pired Proof of miracles is a 
precondition for sanclification 
according to ancient tradition 
of the Roman Catholic faith 

In Johnson City, Texas, Pres- 
iilent Johnson, recuperating 
from his recent gall bladder 
surgery, was described by aides 
as "profoundly up.sei " He at 
once directed that all flags 
should be at half-staff until af- 
ter the funeral The First Lady 
and the two presidential daugh- 
ters, Luci and Lynda, were un- 
derstood to have wept openly 
Luci, 18 the younger aaugh'.er, 
who.se engagement ha.s been 
latel.v niniored is a convert to 
Roman Catholicism It is as- 
sumed that the President and 
his family, including his cousin. 
Oriole, will attend the last rites, 
if the international situation 
permits Both houses of Con- 
gress met in Washington at 
noon today and promptly ad- 
journed after passing a joint 
resolution expressing ' t;rief and 
great respect for the departed 
spiritual leader ' Sen Wayne 
Morse, Dem of Oregon, objected 
on the grounds that the reso- 
lution violated the principle of 
separation of church and state, 
but he was overruled by Vice 
President Hubert Humphrey, 
who remarked that "this is not 
a time for partisan politics." 

Plans for the deity's funeral 
are incomplete. Reliable sources 
suggested that extensive nego- 
tiations may be nece&sarj- in 
order to select a church for the 
ser\'ices and an appropriate 
liturgy Dr Wilhelm Pauck. 
theologian, of Union Seminary 
in New York City proposed this 
morning that it would be "fit- 
ting and seemly " to inter the 
remains in the ultimate ground 
of all being, but it is not known 
whether that proposal is ac- 
ceptable to the family Funerals 
for divinities, common m an- 
cient times, have been exceed- 
ingly rare in recent centuries. 



am. it is understood hat le 
family wishes to re\new details 
of earlier funerals before set- 
tling upon rites suitable for 
God. 

(In New York, meanwhile, 
the stock market dropped 
sharply in early trading. Vol- 
ume was hea^-y. One broker 
railed it the most active mar- 
ket day since the assassination 
of President Kennedy, Nov. 22, 
1963. The market rallied in late 
trading after reports were re- 
ceived that Jesus— see 'Man m 
the News,' p. 36, col, 4 - who 
survives, plans to assume a 
larger role in management of 
the universe! 

Reaction from the world's 
(Treat and from the man in the 
street was uniformly incredu- 
lous "At least he's out of his 
niiser\*." commented one house- 
wife in an Elmira, NY., super- 
market '1 can't believe it." 
said the Right Reverend Horace 
W B Donegan. Protestant Epis- 
copal Bishop of New York, who 
only last week celebrated the 
t.'ith anniversary of his instal- 
lation as Bishop In Pans, Pres- 
ident de Gaulle, in a 30 second 
ippearance on national tele- 
vision, proclaimed: "God is 
dead' Long live the republic: 
Long live France'" Mrs Jac- 
queline Kennedy, widow of the 
late President, was reported 
■in seclusion" in her Fifth Ave- 
nue apartment "She's had 
ihoiit all she can take,' a close 
friend of the Kennedy family 
•iaid News of the death was in- 
•luded in a one sentence state- 
ment, without comment, on the 
^T(^ page of Pravda. official or- 
gan of the Soviet government. 
The passing of God has not 
been disclosed to the 800 mil- 
lion Chinese who live behind 
the bamboo curtain. 

Public reaction in this coun- 
try was perhaps summed up by 
an elderly retired streetcar 
conductor in Passaic, New Jer- 
sey, who said- "I never met him, 
nf course Never even saw him 
But from what I heard I guess 
lie was a real nice fellow Tops" 
From Independence, Mo . form- 
er President Harry S. Truman, 
who received the news in his 
Kansas City barbershop, said 
"I'm always sorry to hear 
somebody is dead. It's a damn 
shame " In Gettysburg, Pa., 
former President Dwight D 
Eisenhower, released, through 
a military aide, the following 
statement "Mrs Ei.<!enhower 
joins me in heartfelt sympathy 
to the family and many friends 
of the late God. He was. I al- 
ways felt, a force for moral 
good in the universe Those of 
us who were privileged to 
know him admired the probity 
of his character, the breadth of 
his compassion, the depth of 
his intellect Generous almost 
to a fault, his many acts of 
kindness to America will never 
be forgotten. It is a very" great 
loss indeed He will be missed" 
From Basel, Switzerland, 
came word that Dr. Karl Barth. 
venerable Protestant theolo- 
gian, informed of the death of 
God, declared: "I don't know 
who died in Atlanta, but who- 
ever he was he's an imposter" 
Dr Barth. 79. with the late 
Paul Tillich, is widely regarded 
as the foremost theolog^ian of 
the 20th Century. 

( There have been unconfirmed 
reports that Jesus of Nazareth. 



33. a carpel ^r an . reputed son 
of God. who sur\'ives. will as- 
sume the authority, if not the 
title, of the deceased deity. 
Jesus, sometimes called the 
Christ, was himself a \'ictim of 
death having succombed some 
1932 years ago in Palestine, 
now the state of Israel pur- 
portedly on orders of a Roman 
governor, Pontius Pilate, and 
at the behest of certain citizens 
of Jerusalem. This event, de- 
scribed by some as "deicide," 
has lately occupied the deliber- 
ations of the 'V'aticsin Council, 
which has solemnly exonerated 
the Jew-s generally of respon- 
sibility for the alleged crime. 
The case is complicated by the 
fact that Jesus, although he 
died, returned to life, and so 
may not have died at all. Dip- 
lomats around the world were 
speculating today on the place 
the resurrected Jesus will oc- 
cupy in the power vacuum cre- 
ated bv the sudden passing of 
God.i ' 

Dr. Altizer. Gods surgeon, in 
an exclusive inter\'lew with the 
Times, stated this morning that 
thedeath was "not unexpected."' 
"He had been ailing for some 
time," Dr Altizer said, "and 
lived much longer thjin most of 
us thought possible " He noted 
that the death of God had, m 
fact, been prematurely an- 
nounced m the last century by 
the famed German surgeon. 
Nietzsche. Nietzsche, who was 
insane the last ten years of his 
life, may have confused "cer- 
tain symptoms of morbidity in 
the aged patient with actual 
death, a mistake any busy sur- 
geon will occasionally make," 
Dr. Altizer suggested. "God was 
an excellent patient, compliant, 
cheerful, alert. Every comfort 
modem science could provide 
was made available to him. He 
did not suffer — he just, as it 
were, slipped out of our grasp." 
Dr. Altizer also disclosed that 
plans for a memorial to God 
have already been discussed in- 
formally, and it is likely a com- 
mittee of eminent clergymen 
and laymen will soon be named 
to raise funds for use in "re- 
search into the causes of death 
in deities, an area of medicine 
many physicians consider has 
been too long neglected" Dr. 
Altizer indicated, finally, that 
he had great personal confi- 
dence that Jesus, relieved of 
the burdens of divinity, would, 
in time, assume a position of 
great importance in the uni- 
verse "We have lost." he said. 
"a father, but we have gained 
a .son " 

I Next Sunday's New York 
Times will include, without ex- 
tra charge, a 24-page full-color 
supplement with many photo- 
graphs, reviewing the major 
events of God's long reign, the 
circumstances of his sudden 
and untimely death, and pros- 
pects for a godless future. The 
editors will be grateful for per- 
tinent letters, photographs, 
visions and the like. 1 

There has been as yet no 
statement from Jesus, but a 
close associate, the Holy Ghost, 
has urged prayer and good 
works He also said that it is 
the wish of the family that in 
lieu of flowers contributions be 
made to the Building F\ind for 
the Cathedral of St John the 
Di\nne in New York City so 
that the edifice may be finished. 

— Anthony Towne 



Reprinted by pi-nnission from MOTIVE Magazine February 1966. Reprints are available upon request from MOTIVE, P. O. Box 871, Nashville, Tennessee. 



ULtMbUN UNIVtKJiMY LI13K Ajyif 
SOUTH CAROLINA ROOU 



rw 



my 



U 



% 



rDENT VARIETY MAGAZINE OF CLEMSON UNIVERSITY 



Yesterday, you may have had a reason 
for missing a good, nourishing breakfast. 

Today, you don't. 




Now you can have 

new Carnation 

instant breakfast 

-makes milk a meal 

that's too good to miss. 



Each glass delivers as much protein as two eggs,^~Y~) as much mineral nourishment as two strips of 
crisp bacon, ^^^^a rnore energy than two slices of buttered toast, / "M and even Vitamin C-the 
orange juice vitamin. Sit comes in a lot of great flavors, too. Look for them in your cereal section. 



JUST MILLING AROUND 



HELLO again. If you think you are surprised to 
see a second issue this semester, what about us? 
And if you think we're surprised, you oughta see 
Dean Cox. He's still trying to figure out if last 
issue's cover was a photograph or just so many 
fingerprints. There's little doubt this time, because 
obviously it's a motorcycle. 

The CHRONICLE was delighted with student 
response to the short-story contest of last month, 
and we are pleased to print the three winning 
entries in this issue. For those whose efforts were 
not rewarded this time, may we offer the dubious 
condolances inferred by a Yankee nasal of "eatcha 
heart out!!" Seriously we regret that we could not 
print all of the short-stories, but we appreciate your 
participation, and encourage you to submit ad- 
ditional material in the future. Once again, may we 
say that the CHRONICLE is your magazine. 

To end the year on a positive statement, we can 
say that the CHRONICLE will put out no addition- 
al issues this semester! But look out for four of 'em 
next year. With this issue, the noose is passed 
(thankfully) to Paul Morris, editor-elect for the 1966- 
1967 academic year. 

Good luck and Good-bye. 




DAVID MILLING 



P. S. Good Riddance! 




Xl< 



tuuSL^ hXjW^)^^ 



PAUL MORRIS 




Casting 

The die has been cast 
an alloy of envisionment 

of time and place 
and in the waste, I , 
lie cherishing my 

molten weakness 
and 
awaiting a tempered cool. 



dail dixon 




y^^^ 



Terry 
BotHing Co. 

ANDERSON, S. C. 



under appointment of Pepsi Cola Co.' 
New York 



DAVID C. MILLING 

Editor in Chief 

PAUL MORRIS 

Reviews Editor 
JIM BATTLE 

Fiction Editor 
WILL SHORE 

Feature Editor 
DON COLLINS 

Advertising Editor 
JULIE & LYNN CRAIG 

Business Directors 
DAIL DIXON 

Graphics Director 

JERI RIGOULOT 

Art Director 

RONALD NAPPIER 

Photography Director 

DAN BOWEN 

Promotion Manager 
JEFF SMITH 

Circulation Manager 
RUSS MYERS 

Head Ph o t og rapher 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Joel Reuse 

Rob Coricato 

Jim Carson 

Charles Cottingham 

Milton Crum 

Harold Davis 

Jack Demy an 

Rill Etheridgc 

Larry Fisher 

Jim Gilreath 

Garland G. Gooden 

Cam King 

Alan Irvine 

Ted McKoy 

Tim McNeight 

Tommy Mozen 

Robert Neimeyer 

Kurt Palomaki 

Phil PeJrovsky 

Clarke Plaxco 

Jim Reed 

Fred Ro bine tie 

Cathy Wa lien burg 

Rill Yoke 

Fred Busch 

DR. MARK STEADMAN 

Faculty Advisor 

ALPHA PHI OMEGA 

Distribution 



Cnronirie 



VOL VI NO 3 



MAY 1966 




CONTENTS 



David C. Milling 1 

Rill Yoke 4 

Joel Reuse 6 

Garland G Gooden 9 

Don Collins & Will Shore 11 

Milton Crum 16 

Paul Morris 18 

71m Mc height 20 

Russ Myers, Will Shore, 22 
and Cam King 

Robert Neimeyer 28 

Clarke Plaxco 31 

Larry Fisher 35 

Bill Etheridge 38 



OUR COVER 



Just Milling Around 
Chronicle Book Review 
An Artie Adventure 
Gray Autumn, and Perfect 
A Day Drags 
Chronicle Essay 
Chronicle Interview 
The Bike 
Gentleman's Choice 

My Only Shield A Wordless Prayer 
A Day of the Dance 
An American Tragedy 
R. E. Lee Gallery Review 



We are indebted to one Brenau lass.whois our cover girl, and to our roving 
photographer Russ Myers for this provocative cover. 



The CHRONICLE is an official student variety publication of Clcmson University pub- 
lished about three times a year in September, April and May. hopefully. Address all cor- 
respondence to the CHRONICLE. Box 2186. Clemson. South Carolina. Student subscriptions 
paid through student activities fee. Other subscription rates: U.S. and possessions $1.00 per 
year- Canada and Pan American Union Countries $2.00: other foreign countries $3.00. En- 
tered as regular mail at Clemson. South Carolina. The editors assume no responsibility for 
the return of material, you have to come and get it. The opinions expressed within do 
not necessarily coincide with anybody's, anywhere at any time. The editor assumes no 
responsibility for the opinions expressed in the Chronicle since he is on the way out. and 
has no opinions. 




TAPS 
TIGER 






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• PRe->T;G-E- So aex t«f .- 

• neG-ouARiTY 





The Chronicle Reviews 



Thumm Capote 




Reviewed by Bill Yoke 



One of today's most widely acclaimed, 
highly publicized books is Truman 
Capote's In Cold Blood. This book rose to 
the top of the bestseller lists with in a few 
weeks of its publication, and there hove 
been countless pages of criticism and 
commentary written about it. The book 
delves into the cold blooded murder of 
four members of the Herbert Clutter 
family of Holcombe, Kansas. The manner 
and the style in which Capote presented 
the story is worthy of the highest Declaim. 

Capote, himself, calls the book a "non- 
fiction novel". This description, it would 
seem, is very apt. Capote spent more 
than five years researching the Clutter 
case. He began this research within a 
few days of the murder in November, 
1959, and never stopped asking ques- 
tions or getting new Ideas until the killers 
died on a Kansas gallows in April 1965. 
He wrote up his interviews from memory, 
never taking notes. In the book, he com- 
bined the countless facts with the de- 
scriptions of an accomplished novelist. 

The descriptions used by Capote are 
brilliant. In one short paragraph, he 
describes Holcombe, Kansas as well as 
any midwesfern plains town has ever 



been described. His description bring 
both delight and horror as he tells of 
the Clutter family's life and the bru- 
tality of their murder. It was with the 
killers, however, that Capote's descrip- 
tion reached their finest point. He seems 
to be at his best when describing the 
grotesque, for Perry Smith, the man who 
actually killed the Clutters was a dimin- 
utive half-lived whose body Capote de- 
scribed as "the thick, crouching torsoofa 
weightlifter....But some sections of him 
were not in proportion to the others.... 
when he stood up, he was no taller than 
a twelve year old child." Of Smith's 
accomplice Richard Hickock, Capote said 
his face "seemed composed of mismatch- 
ing parts. It was as though his head had 
been halved like an apple, then put back 
together off center." With these and 
many other descriptions, Capote weaved 
his story of violence and unwarranted 
death. 

Capote did not include himself in the 
book, but rather told the story through 
the eyes of Al Dewey, the chief investi- 
gator, who brought Smith and Hickock 
to justice. By using this approach. Capote 
kept his personal feelings out of the book 



and stuck strictly to the facts gathered by 
his investigation. Quite naturally. 
Capote grew close to the killers as he ob- 
served them during their long, five year 
wait in prison while appeals weremode. 
Capote said he cried the night the killers 
were executed, and he paid for their 
headstones. This impersonal approach 
stayed clearly within Capote's idea of 
concise reporting and added to the book's 
success. 

Capote takes the reader with the kill- 
ers and then the victims until their paths 
cross in the Clutter's Kansas farmhouse. 
He then sends the killers and pursuers 
down separate paths that end in the 
Kansas prison's death row. The reader 
cannot stop pursuing the separate roads 
and wondering where they will cross 
before the end. 

These several ingredients make InCold 
Blood a book that is hard to put down 
and hard to forget. Capote has succeed- 
ed in combining thediligenceof a report- 
er and the sensitivity of a novelist into 
an excellent work thatshould setthe pace 
in its field for a long time. 




AN ARTIC ADVENTURE 



BY JOEL BENSE 



He was lost.. ..he shivered with the 
thought of walking over one hundred 
and fifty miles to the dirt road that led 
to Fairbanks....now alone in a tremen- 
dous, incredible, desolation— he slung his 
little pack over his shoulder andclimbed 
the creek bank to face the wilderness 
beyond. 
AUGUST 20, 1962 

The young man was a member of a 
United States Geological Survey Arctic 
Expedition whose purpose was to make 
a geological map of the more remote, 
interior regions of Alaska. Early thatday 
he hod sot by a warm campfire on a 
gravel bar, watching o cold wind whip 
across the block water and shuttered as 
it moaned with a tremendous hum 
through the high spruce and tamaracks. 



Later that morning, he would travel 
alone down Beaver Creek in a canoe 
to collect some sediment samples severe I 
miles below the base camp. This camp 
was situated north of one of the smaller 
tributaries of Beaver Creek. Thus, travel- 
ing downstream and westward, more 
and more tributaries would join the 
mainstream which in turn would 
eventually run into the great Yukon 
River. 

After leaving, the wind ceased almost 
completely. There were a few moments 
to light his pipe, sit bock and relax— a 
pleasant, little while, drifting peacefully 
down a quiet stream that flowed calm- 
ly in broad curves... .Suddenly the canoe 
rammed broadside into a tremendous 
rock; it flipped completely— tearing a 



huge gash in the left side as it landed 
on another rock. A second flip slammed 
his head into the left gunnel.... he swam 
frantically in the cold water and finally 
came to, lying on the creek bonk. The 
canoe hod long since been washed away 
or sunk....He thought of walking back to 
camp, but as he thought more about 
this, the reality of such a proposition 
seemed impossible. It was purely a mat- 
ter of fate; he hod swum to the wrong 
shore— there was absolutely no way to 
get to the other side. 

Propping himself against a dead wil- 
low stump and realizing that the sur- 
vival pack was still on his back, he took 
it off to examine the contents, then slung 
it over his shoulder and climbed the 




creek bank fo face the wilderness be- 
yond. 

He looked to the south and knew that 
somewhere beyond those bleak hills Icy 
a long road that would lead to Fair- 
banks... .Everywhere there was soft sky 
line, excepting a tremendous, snow 
capped ridge far to the south. 

The remainder of the day was spent 
roaming through deepforestsand across 
endless miles of barrenmusheg. Soonhis 
eyes were lifted from the ground. Far 
beyond, great, snowy thunderheads bil- 
lowed furiously over a massive ridge. 
A heav,y snowfall could ruin any re- 
maining prayer of survival. He stopped 
abruptly, and for a long while watched 
the dancing clouds— all the time think- 
ing of the odds that were against him: 
exhaustion, pain, fear— it seemed that 
there were far more than any mancould 
justly expect fo contend with. 

That evening he sat by the edge of a 
small pond watching the twilight change 



to darkness. It was such a desolate place 
and the fog hung like a heavy, white 
blanket over the water. Finally darkness 
set in with the fog sweeping through the 
high grass. Occasionally the hooting of a 
distant arctic owl broke the monotony of 
the wind and raindrops. 
AUGUST 21 

Morning come without any sign of 
clearing. After netting out some fish from 
a nearby stream, and roasting them, he 
drank two or three muggs of steaming 
tea; then took the pack apart to see if 
anything might be disregarded. A forty- 
four magnum pistol and some extra 
clothing were left behind, only minimum 
survival equipment was replaced. This 
included a .22 caliber pistol and a hun- 
dred shots for it. There were also small 
fish hooks, string, wire, the fish net, 
matches, compass, two pounds of brown 
rice, sleeping bag and tarp, a small 
pot and mug, a small bag of tea leaves 
and another of salt. He carried an ax 
in his hand. 

The long day that followed was un- 
eventful—excepting a small airplane that 
passed over the mountains to the south. 
He thought at first that it might be a 
search plane, but then he realized that 
any search planes would be flying over 
and around Beaver Creek, which was by 
now fifteen or twenty milesbehind. Much 
time would pass before they would come 
this way. 

When night came, he stopped to build 
a fire and set up his simple camp, then 
climbed into the sleeping bag, figuring 
to be slightly less than a hundred miles 
from the road. It began to snow lightly; 
he closed his eyes and thanked God 
for taking care of him. He slept well and 
dreamed of far-away places. 
AUGUST 22 

The meal of the following morning 
exhausted the food supply, except for a 
small amount of tea. After finishing the 
last bits of food, he drank a great quan- 
tity of hot water. His chief thoughts were 
of finding food; the distance to the road 
did not bother him. 

The long day was spent descending 
the south flanks of the range which he 
had passed through. A severe storm 
came that afternoon bringing torrents of 
rain under blank clouds. It rained hard 
for several hours, then let up-yet not 
completely. 

Reaching the tundra flats, he again 
faced the barren wastelands and soon 
with the axe blade dug up clumps of 
grass, the roots of which he planned tp 



eat. Then he ate blueberries before 
setting his netinalittlestreamwith hopes 
of catching a fish. Instead, only a few 
minnows swam through the large holes 
in the net. Frustrated, he finally removed 
his undershirt, inserted it into the wire 
frame of the net, caught a handful of 
the creatures, and ate them alive. 

Gazing to the south, he wondered why 
he could see no more high ranges. 
Perhaps he had passed all of them and 
was not able to remember. No, this 
was not at all possible. Maybe he mis- 
understood the maps they hod used all 
summer. The topographical maps his 
expedition had been compiling all sum- 
mer were used as bases for the geo- 
logical maps. He knew them too well. 

The young man attempted to get his 
bearings. Suddenly, terror swept over 
him. His face drew an expression of 
fright as the thought swept through his 
mind that hehadbeen reading the wrong 
end of thecompass needle for three days. 
The needly was not marked with thecon- 
ventional arrow; it was a Brunten com- 
pass which had only a small thread of 
copper wire coiled around one end. 
AUGUST 23, 1962 

He was sure that he had gone an extra 
sixty miles north toward the Brooks 
Range... .He was sick. There were halluci- 
nations. He wanted food more then any- 
thing else. Now the road was over two 
hundred miles away. Search planes 
would never come this way; theold base 
camp would by now have been aband- 
oned. Kneeling in the frozen mud, he 
held the compass with his wet, wrinkled 
fingers. 
AUGUST 24, 1962 

The entire day was spent in a search 
for food. He felt his deprived stomach 
begging for food. He would not give 
up! After eating two roasted Ptarmigain 
(Artie birds), he slept like a dead man 
in the freezing rain. 
AUGUST 25. 1962 

He awoke— determined to move on. In 
the afternoon, he ambled along nearthe 
crest of a wooded slope. Something 
bright and shiny could be seen to his 
left in slight, filtered glimpses. He kept 
groping through the trees for a better 
view. Far, for away, the white diamond 
cup of McKinley glowed in the sun like 
a live coal. Excited, he pointed the com- 
pass to it.... The needle finally settled at 
south, south-west-he had been right all 
along. 

AUGUST 25-27, 1962 

He was half-way to the road. Three 
(Continued on page 14) 



portrait of a painting 
Salvador 

get that watch 

out of the 

frying pan 
yelled daii's 

mother 
but he kept 

on frying 

until it 

flopped over 
and he hung 
it on a 

dead tree branch 
over o 

table top 
across a 

hollow log 

and painted 
he called it 

persistant 

memory 

and became 
famous and 

everyone 

thought he was 
retarded 

Kurt Palomaki 



QUI ES IN CAELIS 

my father strong, smelled of 
work and wet leather; sat alone 
stern, he was god in this small place, 
his hands with hair in tendrils 
curling on their hard backs 
spread apart my mother's heart 
so I in liquid singing might 
dance free and bloom, 
my first tears fell against his 
whiskered lips and pale ears 
listened to his stories, never lies 
but often gentle bold inventions, 
his thick fingers held my heart 
in nights and lonely afternoons, 
I was a prince within the 
kingdom of his brave e^es. 

then he is now turned brown and 
quaintly slow, his eyes have died; 
his fingers sit beside his lap 
trembling at the thought of touch, 
his breath is frosting at the 
misty pane through which he sees 
the dear bones he shall join 



shift into second, open your eyes and 
watch while you can. schoolyard black 
market, teamsters union, low costhousing, 
but walk to work, it's good for you. free 
shoe horns with thom mean shoes, kid 
didn't feel like eating today, wife 
keeps getting younger, on the east side 
a father tells his children not to run 
through the night yelling "why?" 
they come home and find out he was 
locked up for yelling "try", fill up the 
pretzel bowl, your wife called, dinner's 
ready, can't go home sober, too hot a 
night not to argue, harlem's quiet tonight, 
they let the bull out of the candy store 
with five bucks in his pocket. 

hot streets, hot people, quiet park, 
person crying down one eye and laughing 
out of the other, iscariot yelling from a 
corner, conventions, babies, horns, too 
noisy, dead men, dutch elms, curved 
alleys, run-over dogs, too quiet, greenwich 
village, guy standing on a corner picking 
his nose, girl in green with green lipstick, 
green skin, green blood, painting, phonies, 
busses, boy and girl walk the streets 
holding a sign reading "leave us alone", 
laughing lady feeding pigeons stops laughing 
when a pigeon takes a crap on her hand. 
"Don't crap on the hand that feeds you".... 
6. Baruch. dead end streets that never 
end, smell of supper, kids coming home.... 
to what? television's busted, walk the 
street, walk, don't run, laugh, cry, little 
miss muffet says five, you soy you're married, 
nice bars, Seagram's 7, beats t. v., truck 
drivers, ex-marines, ex-boxers, ex-ex's, 
down the street a sparrow sings when the 
clock strikes midnight, chef flipping pizzas, 
pizzas flipping chef, gang singing the "star 
spangled banner", sickening, too sober 
to watch much more, going home, gee i'm 
glad new york is here, where else can 
you die for nothing? 



Phil Petrovsky 



•I 



I do not love but wish to 
lie with*n his arms again 
as dumb as fear 



James Battle 




lUUSTIATION lY TIM MdCNCHT 



GRAY AUTUMN, AND PERFECT 

FIRST PLACE CHRONICLE SHORT STORY 
BY GARLAND G. GOODEN 



I had never seen the beach house this 
lote in the autumn, and itseemed strange 
and unfamiliar, sitting bleakly on it's roll- 
ing dune, dandelion heads covering the 
damp grass. Dad had always brought us 
away from the beach before the chill 
breezes began to wade into the sawgross 
and rattle the dry sea oats on thedunes. 
We could feel his grow tense and ex- 
pectant when the wind turned the woves 
opaque and blue-gray and nervous, and 
the relatives would hastily pack their 
bags, bid us their polite goodbyes with 
promises of returning the next summer, 
and take their departures. Our family 
would remain after they all had gone, 
making minor repairs, painting the house 
as often as not. Then we would nail up 
the shutters and leave without looking 
back, because the sky was invariably 
coated with wetcurlingcloudsthotthreat- 
ened rain. 



The house looked dead now; paint 
from the previous years, having been 
unreplenished, was peeling steadily off 
in strips, the wood going brown under- 
neath. As we approached it from the 
highway, I remembered it as it had been 
in my youth, and how my youth had risen 
in it, white and untouched from the gay 
verandas and French windows, from the 
long white beach before it. Now the 
doors were dark and foreboding in the 
shade of the porches, the windows blank, 
recalling other times, the peaked roof 
sunbleached, the red-brick Victorian 
chimneys big and square and solid like 
my grandfather who hod built them, the 
rooster on the rusted windvone frozen 
and withdrawn against the October. 

Ever since I could remember, the en- 
tire Dobbs family hod spent their sum- 
mers here, and the whole beach had 
been open and friendly, full of familiar 



faces and umbrellas, martinis and Vogue 
magazines, young people and old people 
and all of them swimming and shouting 
and knowing each other, the air full of 
names and greetings across the sand, 
and it had all been curious and fasci- 
nating to me because I had been young 
and didn't understand any of it. 

The house had been the core of a per- 
petual party, a kind of hotel, and always 
full of my father's deep laughter which 
mingled with that of the guests. But as I 
grew up, things began to change, people 
began to die, and after the scandal con- 
cerning my younger brother, the family 
never came back. 

It was autumn now, and I pulled the 
car tightly up to the house to escape the 
dampness. The occasion was notacheer- 
ful one, and soon the relatives would 

(Continued to page 10) 



GRAY AUTUMN 

(Continued from page 9) 

begin to return to pay their lost respects 
to my father, who was in the upstairs 
bedroom, dying of years and occur- 
rences. 

The doctor had ordered him to come 
here in the spring, four years ago when 
my mother had died. 'The salt air will 
do him good,' the doctor had said. 

The salt air had done him nogood, and 
he had stayed on here because there was 
noplace in particular for him to go, and 
now the beach was gray and sunken in 
from the sky, and my father was lapsing 
into some perpetual summer, and not 
minding the autumn at all. 

That year I was twenty-four and was 
working on my Master's in English up in 
Connecticutt, teaching while I worked, 
and writing. I had not been back here 
since Mother died, nor had I seen my 
brother or our relations. 

I parked the car and looked over at 
Marge, my wife of two months, who was 
sleeping on the seat beside me. I had 
not wanted to bring her with me, but now, 
seeing the state of the house, feeling the 
age hidden in its rooms, I was glad that 
she had insisted on coming. I touched her 
shoulder to wake her, and she looked up, 
smiling drowsily at me. I got out, opened 
her door, and reached into the backseat 
for our luggage. 

Marge looked at the house and drew 
her arms up, as if to shield herself from 
its austerity. 

"Oh, Auttie, it's lovely," she said. "I 
love old houses." 

"You won't like it once we get inside. 
It's probably in miserable shape." 

We walked around to the beach en- 
trance. The steps were gray and beaten 
down, and the screen door squeaked 
open with a springing hum and rattled 
shut behind us. The interior of the house 
was as degenerated as the outside; dust 
had been pushed out of the way in cor- 
ners and cobwebs were tolerated where 
none had been before. The smell of must 
and rotting wallpaper hung in the air, 
and a feeling of lifeless antiquity was 
intensified by the stark rays from naked 
lightbulbs in the ceiling. 

In the kitchen, Aunt Ruth was fiddling 
with the knobx on the old stove. She 
looked around, surprised, then hurried 
over in her usual co-ordinating way, 
sighed with the same guest-greeting 
smile that I had seen so often. 

"Why, Austin!" she exclaimed. "Why, 
my goodness, how you've grown! We 



haven't seen you in years!" 

She always used the 'we' in welcom- 
ing old acquaintances, and it sounded 
out of place since all of the family had 
not returned for four years. She immed- 
iately turned her attention to Marge, 
and through some giftthatsheseemed to 
have in abundance far above the ordi- 
nary woman, she created a close al- 
liance of conversation of which I was not 
a part. I tookthe bags uptomy old room. 

It had not changed in the time I had 
been absent. Aunt Ruth had stayed with 
my father, having finally found some- 
one who needed her. Since she had lost 
her husband in the Second War, she had 
drifted aimlessly around visiting us each 
in turn, and between visits, living alone 
in Massachusetts. 

She hod left the house as it was, prob- 
ably out of a lingering fondness for the 
past; she had cleaned it, obviously, for 
years in expectancy of the family's re- 
turn. That had never happened, how- 
ever, and it appeared that she had 
grown tired of her work. 

The bed was made, the floor looked 
hastily swept, hangers waited in the 
empty closets, and the papered wall 
spoke drearily of lighthouses and racing 
ketches on white-topped swells. On the 
dresser lay an old Winslow Homer print 
of a fishing boat caught in a squall, 
and there was a faded photograph of 
my brothers and me hanging opposite 
the bed. 

I went back downstairs where Aunt 
Ruth had continued her chores, talking 
endlessly, explaining why the housewas 
such a mess, and never once realizing 
that she had grown old. 

I answered her questions for a while, 
then asked about my father. 

"He's sleeping now, Austin. The doctor 
was just in today." 

"What did he say?" 

Aunt Ruth became quite serious. She 
stopped working in order to look at me. 

"He didn't seem very hopeful at all. 
Your father is very ill, Austin. The doctor 
only gives him a very short time. Dear 
me, I do hope the family gets here soon." 

"Have you heard from any of them?" 

"Yes, your Uncle Harvey and Aunt 
Maude are driving out from Detroit. I 
received a telegram from them last 
week. I haven't heard from the others, 
but I'm sure they'll be here in time." 

"Has Steven come?" I interrupted. 

"Why, I almost forgot. He's here now. 
He flew in from school two days ago. I'm 
surprised that he's not back yet." 

"Where did he go?" 



"Somewhere down the beach. He's 
spent both afternoons down there, just 
as he used to do. But you know your 
brother. He never did have a lot to do 
with us." 

Conversations concerning my brother 
were rare, and when they occurred I 
was always ill at east. From the time we 
had spent together, Marge understood 
this, and now she relieved the tension 
skillfully and swiftly. 

"Auttie, could we go up now? I'm aw- 
fully tired." 

"All right." 

Aunt Ruth excused us and went back 
about her business, and I took Marge 
upstairs. In the room she removed the 
jacket of her suit and sat down on the 
big bed. She gave out a false but pleas- 
ant sensation of nervous enjoyment as 
if not knowing exactly how to act or what 
to say. 

"Who's bed was this?" she asked. I took 
off my coat and hunt it in the closet. 

"Mine," I answered. "Thiswosmy room 
when we were kids." 

She saw the picture on the wall, rose 
and went to it, wiping her finger along 
the dusty glass. 

"That's you on the right, isn't it?" 

"Yes." 

"Then the little one on the left is 
Steven?" 

"Right." 

"And the one in the middle is Dinghy. 
James." 

"Dinghy is fine." 

"Why did you coll him that? You never 
did tell me." 

"We did it for spite. He was the oldest 
and Dad wouldn't let anyone but him 
take the dinghy out." 

"He was the one that...." 

"Yes. He took the dinghy out in a 
thunderstorm because he was angry at 
Dad, and it capsized with him. I was 
about eight. He was dead when Dad 
found him, and then he turned blue." 

"Auttie...." her voice pleaded. 

"I'm sorry," I said, coming up behind 
her and putting my chin on her head. 
"And that's Steven, in the flesh. What 
do you think of him?" She had not taken 
her eyes from the picture. 

"He looks rather frail." 

"He was. We never liked him very 
much because he was always sick or in 
trouble and running to Dad. Then when 
Dinghy died, he and Dad began to de- 
pend on each other. Butwhen Steven got 
older and decided to live his own life, 

(Continued to page 15) 




THE CHRONICLE'S DAY AT THE DRAGS 



By Will Shore 



Certainly, my good man; I'd find it 
both an honor and a pleasure to escort 
you and your men of the tnoss medio 
around the strip. Of course, you can't 
expect too much; we've only been in op- 
eration for thirteen years— hence our 
name of 'Thirteen Forks Drag Strip." 
But you 



Damned if he wasn't right. Wecouldn't 
expect much, and we got even less. In 
short, we have been laboring under a 
misconception. We had expected to see 
tests of sleek, aerodynamically designed 
track runners equipped with no less than 
eight Weber downdrofts to be mounted 
on a quod-cam Maseroti V-12 which is 



capable of developing 340-horsepower 
at 9000 rpm. Hell, even a Lamborghini 
custom with a Hewland HD4 gearbox 
would have sufficed. 

"By the gods, man," Isold, "can't you 
possibly fore better than this?" My alert 
camera crew seconded the statement 

(Continued on page 12) 





A Day At The Drags 

(Continued from page 11) 

with an obstreperous display of ado- 
lescent emotionalism. "It is quite evi- 
dent that you are completely unaware 
of the fact that our magazine has sent 
us over 1 00 miles to give your track the 
publicity of which, evidently, you are 
in dire need." 

"If you will inhibit your wrath and in- 
dignation for a mere moment's time, I 
shall fetch the timekeeper in an attempt 
to appease you." 

It was only a matter of minutes, and 
the intrepid guardian of the clocks ar- 
rived on the scene. 

"'Evnin to you neighbor. I hear that 
y'all got problems, but if'n I can hope 
ye— jest holler— say, that feller yonder 
with thuh camera, why he's got a smile 
like a wave on a slop bucket. Hi'do 
thar little buddy; that damn box of yor'n 
take a 

"If you don't mind, sir, we'd like to get 
on with our business." 

"Oh, I suppose thatyou'unsdonecome 
here to see a drag race." 

"That's about the size of it." 

"Well, lemme see. I guess I better tell 
y'all somethin' about these here rods. 
You see that car over yonder, well 





A Day At The Drags 



that's Buck-Eye Simmons' old man's car; 
Buck-Eye, he paints that rat fink sign on 
the cor ever Sunday after church. And 
thar's Lonzo Simmons, that's Buck-Eye's 
cuzzin; Lonzo's driving a hemi-head 
wheel barrovi/— it ain't much for looks, 
but that little son of a bitch'll sure do a 
v/heel stand-built it hisself. We ain't 



never got no time on her, though be- 
cause we ain't got no clocks. They jest 
call me the timekeeper as a sort of 
honorary title— v/e ain't got no.... 

"You said that." 

"Oh, yeah. Well, anyways, we got us 
a nigger down the track— he hollers up 
here to us when the car gets to him— 



can't count no further than twenty, but 
that don't make no difference, none of 
these cars make it down to him in less 
than twenty anyways." 

At this point, I threw up my hands in 
utter despair, my photo staff did the 
same." 




(Continued from, page 7) 
days had passed. 

In the twilight of August 28th, he blind- 
ly walked into the middle of a pack of 
thirteen lobo timber wolves, approach- 
ing them from behindand intothe wind.... 
He felt surrounded andgotccreepy feel- 
ing up his spine. At the sight of him they 
exploded like cannon balls intothe forest. 
AUGUST 29-30th 

Two more days came and went. 
AUGUST 31 

On the last day of August, he saw a 
reindeer and shot it. The young man took 
the axe and cleaned the big buck near 
a stream, then built a fire and roasted 
two huge slabs of the red meat. Later 
on, he went out and cut enough wood 
for the fire that would burn through the 
night to keep stray grizzlies away from 
the carcass. 

He slept that night beside the reindeer 
and dreamed of the wolves. He heard 
their haunting howls and saw their 
macabre shadows sweeping through the 
forest shattering the stillness of the milky 
arctic twilight. The cold wind wasblowing 
stronger now, and the fire had passed 
its glowing stage. He dreamed of many 
things— sunsets, dawn, and sleeping 
lakes....The wolves came closer and be- 
gan to circle in giant, loose-limbed 
strides. The icy wind and rain had been 
nearly unbearable, and nowtheir blood- 
freezing sounds had him trembling. He 
heard the mechanical thumps of their 
feet crunching the snow only a few feet 
away....He bolted up, grabbing the axe in 
one hand and a smouldering log in the 
other. He looked up hearing a mechan- 
ical "thud, thud, thud," and shook his 
head to dismiss the sound. Then all at 
once it appeared over the trees— closer 
and closer. 

It was the army helicopter. 

It came closer to theground, hovering, 
yawing back and forth....They looked 
down at him standing there beside the 
reindeer carcass and the smouldering 
fire— the axe blade jammed between 
the shoulders of the dying timber wolf 
at his feet.^B 





The man dashed into his wife's bed- 
room and caught her red-handed. "Mis- 
erable woman!" he cried, "I knowevery- 
thing now!" 

"Don't be so sure," she replied calm- 
ly, "what's the average weight of the 
American bald eagle." 

A Clemson man is bringing his co-ed 
back from an expensive nighton the town. 

Tiger: You know, babe, I've got about 
15 dollars invested in you. 

Tigerette: Well, what do you expect? 

Tiger: Oh, to take about a thirteen dol- 
lar loss. 

Prosecutor: Now tell the court how you 
came to take the car. 

Defendant: Well, the car was parked 
in front of the cemetery, so naturally I 
thought the owrver was dead. 

The professor phoned the doctor to tell 
him that his young son had swallowed his 
very best grading pen. "I'll come right 
away," said the M. D. "What are youdo- 
ing in the meantime." 

"Using a red pencil," the professor re- 
plied, "but it's messy." 

"What kind of a roommate have you 
got?" 

"Well last night he hit his knee on a 
chair and said, 'Oh the perversity of in- 
animate objects'!" 

The Sunday gospel shouterwas in great 
form. "Everything God made is per- 
fect," he preached. 

A hunchback rose in the rear of the 
auditorium. "What about me?" 

"Why," the pieacher replied, "you're 
the most perfect hunchback I ever saw." 



John Feeble was not a potent man, and 
he knew it. So did his wife, so she sent 
him to the doctor. 

"Here, John," said the doctor, "These 
tablets are experimental. They are to be 
taken before dinner. Idon'tk now if they'll 
work or not, but it's better than nothing." 
That evening, just before dinner, John 
took two tablets. Ten minutes later he 
was filled with power; he jumped across 
the table spilling all the dishes to the 
floor; grabbed his wife and made pas- 
sionate love to her. 

The following afternoon while out for 
a stroll, he met the doctor. "Howdid they 
work," he asked. 
"Rather well, doctor, rather well." 
"You don't seem to be very enthus- 
iastic. Did anything go wrong?" 

"Well, not really, it's just that they 
won't let us eat in Howard Johnson's 
any more." 

"How did you puncture your tire?" 
"Ran over a milk bottle." 
"S'matter, didn't you see it?" 
"Now. The kid had It under his coat." 

"Ah wins." 
"What you got?" 

"Three eights and a pair of kings." 
"No you don't. Ah wins." 
"What you got?" 
"Three sevens and a razor." 
"So you does. How come you is so 
lucky?" 

An old woman walking along the street 
was shocked to see a young boy kicking 
a little girl who was lying in a ditch. 

"Good heaven's little boy.whatdoyou 
think you're doing?" 

"Don't worry lady," the lad replied, 
"she's dead." 



(Continued from page 10) 
Dad wouldn't let him go, and Steven 
resented hell out of it. Finally he man- 
oged to get into something he couldn't 
get out of, and it broke the whole family 
up." 

"What did he do?" 

I turned away and took off my tie. 

"Oh, that's long and involved. Remind 
me to tell you aboutjtonafull stomach." 

Marge had not slept well in the car, 
and she decided to bathe and sleep 
until dinner. I went back downstairs. 

"Would you like a drink, Austin?" 

"If it's no bother." 

"No bother. What would you like?" 

"Do you remember those drinks you 
used to mixfor Dad withginand cherries? 
It wasn't a Collins." 

"Yes, and I remember you drinking 
out of them when he wasn't looking." 
We both laughed. "Get me the ice, 
would you?" 

We talked for a while. 

We talked for a while, and when I 
finished the drink I stepped out onto the 
porch. Aunt Ruth called from the kitchen. 

"Do you want to see your father? I'll 
wake him. " 

"No, let him sleep. I'm going to see if 
I can find Steven." 

It was late afternoon and the clouds 
pressed against the water, making the 
waves spurt up quickly and fall back. 
There were no long swells, and only a 
few gulls were flying over the shore. I 
walked slowly, watching the pipers zig- 
zag along the fringes of the waves, 
running around the foam and hurrying 
after the retreating water. After a while 
I saw Steven very faroff down the beach, 
advancing toward me with his head 
down. Even at this distance I could tell 
that his jacket was slung over his shoulder 
and one hand was in his pocket, in his 
typical sulky manner. He did not see me 
until we were closer. 

When he recognized me, hequickened 
his steps, and his hand was out as we 
met. 

"Auttie," he said, "Auttie, howare you? 
God, it's good to see a familiar face. 
How dre you?" 

"I'm all right. You?" 

"Nothing special." 

"How's your asthma? You look a lot 
better. Healthier." 

"It's clearing up. Kept me out of the 
service." 

"Service?" 

"Oh, yes, I quit school my second 
year and they fried to draft me. But I 



failed the physical. General condition, 
I think." 

"Are you back in school?" 

"Yes, but you know, Auttie, I really 
hate it. It's not a good school and no- 
body likes me there." 

I hod hear that before. He was very 
insecure and never could get along with 
anybody. 

"I'm making fine marks, though," he 
added quickly. 

We walked down the beach in an un- 
comfortable conversation until we were 
in sight of the house. 

"Have you seen Dad?" 

"No," he said slowly. "I've beensortof 
afraid to. There's a lot I have to tell him, 
but you know how he was that summer." 

Steven trailed off. There was a lot they 
had to straighten out between them, 
since the entire family breakdown had 
been blamed on Steven. 

"I've got someone I want you to meet, 
if she's awoke." 

Steven looked at me slyly, with a sort 
of teasing perception. 

"Auttie, are you married?" 

"Yes," I answered. 

This really surprised him, andhespent 
the rest of the conversation congratulat- 
ing me and asking me his trivial ques- 
tions. When we got to the house. Marge 
was already downstairs helping Aunt 
Ruth get dinner ready. I introduced them, 
and Steven, in his peculiar way, only 
stared at her as if he seemed to recog- 
nize her from some dream. He muttered 
a few inarticulate phrases which un- 
nerved Marge. She began to ask him 
questions that made him fumble, and all 
of us were in a tense position. As soon 
as he found an opportunity, Steven ex- 
cused himself, looked at me strangely, 
then went upstairs without his usual 
complacent smile. 

"What makes him that way?" Marge 
asked, sounding almost hurt. "Was it 
something I said?" 

"No," I said, looking after Steven, "It 
was more the way you look." 

"What?" 

I turned back and regarded her for a 
moment, smiling, and seeing again, as 
I knew Steven had, something we hod 
shared years before. Marge looked up 
at me with the timid fear of having of- 
fended. 

"Auttie?" 

"Nothing," I said, kissing her cheek. 

Dinner was slow and awkward, the con- 
versation sharply pointed until AuntRuth 

(Continued on page 40) 



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235-0167 



A CHRONICLE ESSAY 

IS GOD DEAD? 

By Milton Crum, Jr. 

_ A Nebulous Question — 

Cither as a question or as a statement, the title 
of this article has the publicity-power to catch at- 
tention in a news story or to be a pregnant topic 
for table talk. At the same time the phrase has 
destructive-power which can be used to confuse 
and devastate others in polemical bouts. Being 
without an empirical referent(as, say, thequestion, 
Is the dog dead?, would have), the phrase is ex- 
tremely nebulous. 

Does the word "God" refer to some idol, to a 
concept, to a metaphysical reality, or to what? 
Does the adjective "dead" refer to the mind which 
has no vital concept which is tagged "God", or 
does it refer to the deadness of some being or 
.concept in itself? Is the cause of death the casting 
out of an irrelevant notion about "God" or was 
there a murder? Until there is some mutual under- 
standing among discussants, there may be hot argu- 
ments with little communication. 

— Everybody Has "gods" — 
Functional gods are those things which offer a 
promise of satisfaction and for which a person 
spends his life and possessions. Decisions as to 
what is good or bad are made on the basis of 
functional gods. On the basis of his gods a person 
will choose this and reject that. These are the gods 
of sensual satisfaction or pleasure, the gods of 
status gratitication or prestige, and the gods of 
social achievements of power. Such gods arealive 
in the sense of exercising power in the lives of 
people. Such gods are real in the sense that they 
are things subject to empirical observation. For 
example, in the musical, STOP THE WORLD: I 
WANT TO GET OFF! Littlechap served the gods of 
pleasure in his sexual pursuits, of prestige in his 
business success, and of power in being elected to 
Parliament. 

— The "gods" Are Dead — 

Thus, the gods of empirical, common-sense lan- 
guage are alive in some ways, but in a deeper 



sense they are real dead, because the kicks they 
give don't last. Jaded memories of the big week- 
end, auto junk-yards, and collapsing power struc- 
tures are signs that the godsaredead. But this was 
said over 2700 years ago. 

— Some People Have Gods — 

When the word "God" is spelled with a capital, 
it is a sign to look out for a different use of the 
same language noise. When the gods are in the 
realm of the language of common-sense, the word 
"god" refers to some entity which is subject to 
direct, empirical observation. But the use of the 
capital "G" is a signal to look to anothe realm of 
language— something more than, beyond, deeper 
than, or in some way other thancommon-sense. For 
example, suppose you have been getting tempo- 
rary status gratification by buying, wearing and 
driving all the gods that the gospel according to 
the ads tells you to. For a moment they make you 
feel like somebody with prestige, but the kickfades 
away, and you are out looking for another god. 
Besides the high cost of such a religion, it doesn't 
satisfy. Then through something that happens, like 
a friend or some other experience, it hits you that 
you are somebody simply because you are and 
not because of this or that. The thesis which you 
have inferred is more than the sum of all the status 
boosters that you have collected. Your new belief, 
which you have discerned through actual exper- 
iences by the act of inferring from them, goes 
beyond the events to a theory of the events, 
which means a perception of what is real. Your 
new confidence is not based on your gods and 
yet you believe that it has a foundation which is 
more than your opinion. To show that your new 
sense of status is not based on the gods of em- 
pirical, common-sense language but came about 
through an inference you might say that you are 
somebody in terms of God (Reality) spelled with 
a capital "G". 

This kind of logical process goes on all the time 
when we jump from obvious, public data to making 
sense of things, to making value judgments, or to 
inferring theses, themes, and theories, all ofwhich 
are connected with the word theos God. This is 
the process by which you might take all the data 
of being a student and infer that this is a "cool 



school". To read this as common-sense language 
and to try to verify the statement with a ther- 
mometer would be non-sense. The phrase "cool 
school" tries to warn you that it is inferred-sense 
language by being in quotation marks and by us- 
ing an adjective in an odd way. 

God-language, with a capital "G", is inferred- 
sense language. With no vital God, a person has 
only gods. So, in this sense, the person for whom 
God is dead is himself dead, as gods are dead. 



— God Concepts — 

We began with gods as things by which a person 
makes decisions regarding the spending of his life 
and money and which are subject to empirical 
observation and which can be referred to in com- 
mon-sense language. To jump beyond such cal- 
culations to decisions and self-understandings 
based on inferences from the data of life is to 
jump from gods to God and from common-sense 
language to inference-sense language. 

To take the process a step further, suppose that 
you try to tell a friend about your new sense of 
confidence. He keeps trying to find what caused it. 
He suggests that it was because of your new 
sweater, or good grades, or going steady, but you 
say that these are part of it but that your confi- 
dence is based on something more, and you say 
that it isn't because of any thing that you believe 
that you ore really somebody and that you don't 
hove to keep trying to prove it. When he accuses 
you of believing something that isn't anything, 
you try to explain the matter to him by saying 
that it is something like having the Greatest Man 
in the world tell you that you are somebody in his 
book. But your friend is still operating in the logic 
of common-sense and he challenges you to show 
him the greatest man. So you have to try another 
analogy and tell him that there is noGreatest Man 
that can be seen like your friend sees you. Rather 
you explain that it is like having an invisible 
world above the one that is visible. 



These analogies are symbols which are useful in 
trying to communicate your inference to your 
friend. But eventually these analogical concepts 
get unhooked from the experiencesfrom which they 
were inferred and there develops a notion thatwe 
live in a realm which is denoted as natural and 
that above this realm is an invisible one called 
super-natural. And since the two have been sep- 
arated the connection between them isthroughdo- 
ing certain actions and saying certain words which 
are called religious. It is then considered that re- 
ligion has a monopoly on both the word God and 
all that the word symbolizes. 

- Is God Dead? - 

For most people, it would appear that the con- 
cept of God as an empirical being who could be 
seen by an observer whocouldget upor out there 
is dead. The sarcasm of the Russian cosmonaut's 
remark that he didn't see any God out there ap- 
peared to be of little power. 

Practically, though a majority of Americans still 
avow a belief in the concept of a super-natural 
God who is approached by religion, there is a de- 
clining commitment to the worth and practice of re- 
ligion. In other words, most people live most of 
their lives as if such a God were dead. 

More subtle is the Christian story of the death of 
the God who came down from above to be made 
man in Jesus of Nazareth and who died on the 
cross. The God who resided outside of the world 
and who was known and served in religiousactions 
was dead. To know and serve the God who is alive 
in Jesus involvesknowingand servingother people 
in ways which may not appear as religiousactions. 
In this, the God who is above the world in the 
sense of being out of it is dead so that the God 
who is inferred through ordinary down-to-earth 
events may be alive. 

So by the time, you explain what you mean by 
your question, you will probably have already pro- 
vided your answer. 




The Chronicle Reviews 



Carlos Montaya 



It was Thursday, March 17, a date in 
Clemson history not soon to be forgot- 
ten, because it was the day that Carlos 
Montoya came to Clemson. 

"The Incredible Montoya" has been 
acclaimed the world over by newspapers 
and magazines, however, the CHRON- 
ICLE does not aspire to such heights of 
meoninglessness. Instead of words like 
unique, exciting, magnificent, astonish- 
ing, and on, ad infinitum and ad nausium, 
we fintd it much more fitting to let Mon- 
toya's acts speak. Montoya's loquacious 
guitar has made him the most recorded 
Flamenco artist of all time, this coupled 
with the fact that he is the first to present 
Flamenco music in solo concerts makes 
bin'* a man of rare and distinct accom- 
plishments, as well as a man of words. 

On that particular Thursday, lo these 
many weeks ago, the CHRONICLE ac- 



companied Ireland Regnier, o well- 
known Flamenco-artist, to the palm cov- 
ered stage of the Clemson Field House, 
where despite the background radiator 
noise we were able to carry on a sem- 
blance of an interview. 

The interview began, I recall, as we 
scraped a couple of chairs across the 
stage to join the master, who, seated 
center stage, was looking out across the 
empty audience fondeling his guitar in 
his hands. 

This was the small quite countenance 
that greeted us and told us that Fla- 
menco was the music of the Spanish 
gypsies. They first played the haunting 
melodies and Montoya continues in the 
same ritualistic mood, improvising here 
and there throughout his playing, giving 
each piece a distinctive flavor and each 
concert a decided quality. 



When asked how much time he spends 
in practice, this Giant of the guitarworld 
responded in his English/Spanish dialect 
by saying, "only an hour a day." Yousee, 
he explained, "I only practice scales, tre- 
melos and arpeggios, the mechanics, not 
each individual piece." This method of 
practice allows him proficiency, butdoes 
not stiffle the spontaneity which is Fla- 
menco music, theimpromtu music of gyp- 
sies. 

The instrument itself was made for him 
and no amount of money Could makehim 
part with it, you see he tells us that it 
is rather like an extension of his hands, 
indeed a part of him, like a soul that 
could never be taken oway. He uses ny- 
lon strings, the bass strings being 
wrapped with silver. These, he says, are 
far superior to the old gut strings which 
(Continued on page 30) 



THE BIKE 



Second Peace Short Story 
By Tim McKneight 



The half-choked bratting of a two-cycle 
lawnmower brought May to another Sat- 
urday awakening. "Damn that old man. 
Can't hetellthedifference betweengrass 
and ground?" May watched as the blades 
careened yet a another rpck against the 
side of the clapboard garage. Eleven- 
thirty, a three aspirin breakfast seemed 
appropriate for this morning after. 

"May, you got a big mouth when you 
drink. Why can't you be a quiet drunk, 
like Hall and his disciples." Fred Hall, the 
observant one, was going for his Dr. 
in psychology and was called the Orb by 
May and hischronies. 

As the razor blade stripped A/\ay of his 
Neanderthal growth, he snorted, "That 
Hall, he'll just sit there and let you blow 
up a big balloon, then with a few well- 
aimed and indisputable cuts, he'll shoot 
you down. "The medicinechestreiterated 
his message with the help of a healthy 
swing. 

May closed the screendoor behindhim 
and futilely examined the mailbox 
labeled "Philip C. Maynard". "Good 
morning Mr. Forbes," May shouted to the 
older man still busy with his turfchewer, 
"keeping the lawn in shape I see." 

"Morning Phil. Yep, have to cut it in the 
morning or the sun'll burn it you know. 
You know the clippings get dry and...." 
The old man's bucolic advice fell pat 
against May's back, making him glad he 
wasn't a retired millforeman turned lawn 
mower. 

As the trivia of the rising ritual left 
May's mind, the theme from the night 
before bobbed to the surface of his 
consciousness. "Joan," he thought, "I 
just don't know what I see in her some- 
times. How can a guy be nuts over a 



girl who's bent.. ..and if she pulls that 'if 
you love me you'll see I'm right' crap 
again I'll...." 

May and Joan, May and Joan, that's 
how it had been since August, eightshort 
months ago. They had become somewhat 
of an institution on campus and where 
it's at. One thing stood in the way of 
their achievement of angelic ecstacy. 
Jess, May's top priority talkmate put it 
at its curt best. "May, Joanie'd be all 
over if you'd dump that damn bike." 

Last night's episode at the Kave was 
no singular occurrence. May and Joan 
were chumming it up with Jess and his 
current partner, Frank and Bet (the Young 
Marrieds) and of course Orb and the 
Group. J and B lubricates the tongue 
and trips the mind, Joan's as well as 
May's. Before May really knew it, there 
was Joan up on her soap box, playing 
their song: "The Sell the Bike Polka". 
It wasn't new to anybody; in fact the 
denizens of the Kave had come to refer 
to it as the "Scene". 

It started prototypically; Joan attacked. 
May brushed her off, Joan lunged. May 
parried, Joan fawned. May relented ever 
so slightly, which Joan followed with a 
caressing "you mean you will?" 

Joanie had been making assumptions 
though and last night she got a little too 
possessive. May boiled over, spewing 
sentiment, emotion and reason in one 
motley mixture. He was riling down the 
highway of reason when the Orb stepped 
in. Jess had told May about Hall. "Watch 
out P. C." Jess said, "the Orb will snatch 
Joanie the second he can trip you up." 
Now May knew he was right. A few 
sharp paraphrases to the head, a quote 
to the stomach, followed by the old one- 



two of wit and logic; and there lay May 
crumpled on the floor of the Kave, bleed- 
ing from every pore. May had only the 
bottle to turn to forconsolation, while the 
gallent Orb comfortedthe weeping Joan. 

The wolk to Stanton's Gas Station and 
Service Center wasn't far from AAoy's 
apartment, just two blocks over and down 
the hill. May walked briskly on the hot 
macadem. He was barefoot, carrying his 
shoes in his hand and weaving back and 
forth, tracing the dipping shadows of the 
power lines as they fell across the road. 
Friday night's rendition of the "Scene" 
kept turning over in his mind and at 
least one hundred "I should have said" 
rejoinders popped into his head each 
time he came to Hall's assault. 

May stopped at the top of the hill to 
let his feet bask in the cooling umbra of 
a transformer. He could see the bike 
from there. He could see the sunlight 
shattered and bouncing across paintand 
chrome. The bushes and trees on the 
slope slowed his bounding descent and 
with each new position the bike gleamed 
at him in a different hue. May stopped 
about ten feet from th§ bike, squatted to 
the ground and slipped on his shoes. He 
sat cross-legged next to the air pump, 
just far enough away from the bike tosee 
it all at once. It was a clean bike, function 
personified. No fins or radio, no fold-up 
arm rests or power windows; just what's 
needed and that was it. "You'rea beaut," 
said hAay. "Sell the bike! Sell the bike! 
I know why Joanie doesn't like you, she's 
jealous." 

The bike sat silent, staring at May with 

the sinister smiling indifference of potent 

machinery. It could wait him outforever. 

(Continued on page 27) 




PHOTO BY CATHY WAllENBURG 





SUSAN BOXALL 



LYN WITHERS 
MARGRET GRAIN 






DEBORAH SIEG 



JANE OWEN 



Brenau 



THE SECOND LUSTY PHOTOGRAPHIC TRAVELOGE 
TAKEN BY ONE OF THE CHRONICLES LECHEROUS 
OLD PHOTOGRAPHERS RUSS MYERS AND HIS 
FAITHFUL WONDER DOG STODIE AKIENFIELD. 



Grotesque shadows crept 'neath the ivy covered walls, footsteps-stealthy 
and determined. The distant sound of chickens broke the stillness of the night. 
Yes, it was Gainesville, Georgia, broiler capitalof the world. It seems that our 
photographers had arrived approximately 29 hours early in hopes of photo- 
graphing the "natural beauty" of the girls of Brenau College. Unfortunately, 
a very alert campus gendarme-Elmo P. Suggins-intercepted them, thereby 
thwarting any chances of a "breakthrough" for the CHRONICLE. 

So, again this issue, we're restricted by the bonds of mediocrity. They're 
fully clothed-and tough. 

Will Shore 



THE BIKE 

(Continued from page 20) 

May raised his head from the pavement 
and stared at the bike, framed between 
his knees. That pose broughthome Hall's 
observation with hilarious appropriate- 
ness. "The motorcycle", May mimicked 
the Orb, "is an obvious psychological 
extension of the male organ." May 
pushed himself to his feet and laughed, 
"Those mindbenders have an answerfor 
everything." 

The bike matched his laughter with low 
rumbling as AAay threw his leg over the 
black leather saddle and kicked life into 
its twin cylinders. May ripped Stanton's 
bill reminder from the handle grip and 
tossed it aside. He hated anythingon the 
bike except himself. He tightened hisgrip 
on the throttle and as he released the 
clutch the rear fire chirped and the 
front of the bike rose a good fen inches. 
The engine wound high as May pushed 
first to its death. Again the tire chirped 
as the bike lunged forward with seconds 
heady pleasure. May was soon in fourth 
and cruising down Fairview Boulevard, 
a small part of the world he now owned. 
His shadow raced along the asphalt slight- 
ly ahead of him. 

May thought about Joan. "You know," 
May said to the top of the gas tank, 
"Joan is afraid of you...." he paused for a 
moment, "and she hates you for it." 
The bike continued in its pavement eat- 
ing pace, apparently unmoved by the 
news. "And that's funny," May went on, 
"because I'm afraid of you too, and that's 
why I love you." May wrenched the 
grip and the bike responded with on af- 
firmative leap into fifth. 

May thought of the squeeze of Joan's 
arms about his waist and how she pressed 
her supple body into his back, hid her 
head behind his shoulders when they 
rode together. She hated the bike; hated 
its sound, its bulk and power, and most 
of all she hated the hold it had on May. 
She always clung tight to him as they rode 
as if to keep the bike from running 
away with him. May remembered when 
she had burned herself on the cherry hot 
exhaust, how she had cried and seemed 
to blame the bike for attacking her. 

hAay tightroped the center line as the 
bike headed for the open highway at 
almost a hundied miles an hour. A big 
bug kamikazed into May's forehead and 
as he wiped away its remains with his 
wrist the speedometer rose too hundred 
and twenty. May hurdled past a '53 



Ford and watched its image shrink in his 
mirror. "Damn those eight to fiver's," 
May thought. He felt exclusive and 
unique in the universe. The wind forced 
itself into his lungs in great gasps and 
his clothes hugged his body as he 
whipped along. 

He was well banked into the turnwhen 
he saw the ferret in the road. It hod 
seemed to jump into his wheel and 
May righted a skid and braked hard. The 
fork whipped sideways and the bike 
flipped. 

The bruising impact on May's knees 
and back was mercifully short. His el- 
bows and right calf screamed with the 
fire of torn flesh as he slid and rolled 
across the lanes and into the grass- 
gilded culvert. 

He lay on his back in the ditch. He 
could see his right leg and its crazy cant 
made him retch dryly. Each pulse 
brought a painful throb to every cut 
and May relished thecreeping numbness 
of shock as it enveloped him. He could 
hear the bike a few feet behind him; 
the front wheel rubbing lazily against a 
twisted fender. The tortured metaphor 
of boy and bike rested in their common 
ditch. May resolved never to sell it as a 
'53 Ford coasted to a helpful stop. 




t.»-Z7Aa 



#^ 





MY ONLY SHIELD 
A WORDLESS 
PRAYER 

By Robert Henry Niemeyer 

The author of this story, Mr. 
Robert H. Xeimeyer, had spoken 
against the Capone Syndicate's 
gambling establishments in his 
home town of Xorth Lake, III. 
He had spearheaded investiga- 
tions of an organization which 
was manhandling the mayor of 
North Lake. With the assistance 
of a large neiospaper, Mr. 
Neimeyer prompted the District 
Attorney's office to force the 
mayor to close the syndicate's 
operations. Mr. Neimeyer's re- 
ward—a beating. 

On February 22, 1953, 
Neimeyer was recognized by the 
Freedom Awards as having 
made an outstanding contribu- 
tion to a better understanding 
of the American way of life. 

The Freedom Awards are pre- 
sented to 800 Americans, 
schools, and organizations who 
receive the $100,000 in prizes 
for their efforts to promote de- 
mocracy. 

Receiving the awards along 
icith Mr. Neimeyer were two men 
about whom we have read a 



great deal— Bishop Fulton .1. 
Sheen and Cecil B. Demille. 

Men like Mr. Neimeyer deserve 
our thanks and our praise. The 
story which you are about to 
read is hitherto unpublished- 
read it and think. 

It happened in an unguarded moment. 
One minute I was driving east in the out- 
side lane of the divided four lane high- 
way toward Chicago, and, in the next 
minute, I was being forced off the road 
by a large black cor on my left. 

I spun the wheel hard to the right to 
avoid striking the car as it kept crowding 
me and came to a grinding stop on the 
dusty crushed-stone shoulderof the rood. 

Boiling with anger, I turned to blow off 
my steam at the idiot who had almost 
wrecked me and found myself looking in- 
to the shooting end of a .38 revolver 
which stared out the rear window of the 
sedan. 

The gray gloved hand thatheld the pis- 
tol manuevered it so expertly, that itkept 
me from seeing the owner's nose and 
mouth. Only the outline of his huge head 
and several deeply set wrinkles in the 
fat swarthy face were visible— a gray fe- 
dora hot brim came down overtheeyes. 

'Keep your hands on the wheel and 

your head down, you !" His foul 

speech marked him as a desperate man, 
probably an ex-convict. 

Before I could comply with his order, I 
saw the dim outlines of the three other 
occupants of the car, and one, seated in 
the front, also pointed a gun in my di- 
rection. 

The fat man slid from the car, his feet 
pounding a hurried, nervous beat as he 
ran around the rear of my car. Breath- 
less and fumbling, he finally managed to 



open the door on my rightand squirmed 
across the seat toward me. Reaching up, 
his left hand pulled down the brim of my 
hat so hard that it burrowed deeply into 
the bridge of qiy nose. 

"Move over, he'll drive." 

The full impact of his words lashed 
me like a whip. For a foolish moment 
I thought I was the victim of a highway 
robbert, and I was bitter because I was 
carrying an unusual amount of money. 
Now I realized that thegunmen were not 
robbers, but syndicate hoodlums, and I 
was being token for a gangland ride. 

My chain of thought was broken as 
the other gunman came in on the left, 
pocketing his pistol before taking the 
wheel. He too, like the fat man, wore 
black-striped gray gloves and expensive, 
very expensive clothes. I could not see 
his face and I did not attempt to sneak 
a look at him. 

We all have questioned why men have 
gone along with their executioners un- 
resistingly to a certain death, and now, 
I was learning the answer. It is not fear, 
for fear drives men to resist violently. 
With me it was an overwhelming feeling 
of defeat.... I l^ad spent several years 
fighting a powerful, ruthless enemy, and 
hod tasted briefly the fruits of victory. 
Now, suddenly, my enemy countered 
with an attack that left me helpless, and 
I went along because it was futile to re- 
sist. However, hope is strong, even in 
the hearts of the condemned, and you 
cling to it until faith in God supplants it. 

The car started moving again and in a 
minute turned south into a willow-lined, 
cinder paved lane that some day will 
be called Eleventh Avenue. Anothermi n- 
ute of riding over rounded ridges and 
deep ruts, and the car came to a stop. 

Just two minutes, but I used them 
fully, thinking about Ellie and our son. 
Bob. What would they think if the gang- 
sters killed me and disposed of my body 
in a manner that left no trace. It hurt 
me to think about the grief that was 
about to visit them. If only.... 

'Get out of the car and keep your head 
down." The fat man was pushing me 
toward the door the driver held open. 

The black cor had followed us, stopping 
fifty feet behind. A pair of arms en- 
circled me from the rear as the fat 
man deftly ran his hands through my 
clothing searching for weapons. From 
my inside pocket he removed a sales 
report folder, gave it to the driver, and 
began shaking me violently. 

"We'll teach you to....!" 



The charge was so ridiculous, so ab- 
surd, that I thought it might be a cose of 
mistaken identity, and a false hope 
swelled within me. 

"I would never do such a thing," I 
replied; "you musthave thewrong man." 

"What's your name?" 

"Robert Niemeyer." 

"Who do you work for?" 

I gave him the name of the largedairy 
company that employed me as a sales 
representative. 

The fat man reached out, took the folder 
from the driver's hand, thumbed through 
the papers, and, as he placed them back 
inside the coat pocket, he declared, "We 
got the right guy. Come along, we're 
taking you to the Chief." 

It was unsound for me to believe that 
they had made a mistake in kidnapping 
me, for deep down within me, I knew 
I was trapped and why; but, the charge 
the fat man made against mewasso pre- 
posterous that it gave bouyancy to a hope 
that they could be wrong. However, the 
declaration, 'We got the right guy', sent 
hope plummetting down like a dead 
duck: Just like the dead duck I thought I 
soon would be. 

Grasped by each arm, I was lead to 
the rear door of the other car— half 
forced and half pulled onto the seat. 
Once again, I was thoroughly searched 
for weapons. 

"Get down on the floor, face forward 

and don't look up at us, you dirty !" 

commanded the fat man from the front 
seat. 

Without giving me a chance to obey 
the order, I was roughly forced from the 
seat to the floor. The car was extra 
large and there was plenty of room for 
me to lie on my right sidewithmy knees 
ing the feet or legs of the hoodlums 
in the back seat. 

The car in starting, mocked the ner- 
vousness of the driver and foramoment 
jerked as if it were in the throes of a 
convulsion. I rolled about on the flooras 
we bouncecf from hole to hole, and 
worried that the hoods would think I 
was drying to get a look at them. Un- 
doubtedly, they were going to kill me, 
but I would do nothing to antagonize 
them. 

As hope faded, faith in God strength- 
ened me, and I turned to Hin^ in prayer. 
I have never taken rank with the weak 
and lazy souls who expect God to pro- 
tect and provide for them. I can only 
ask for strength to endure and reason 
to understand. 



It was a silent, wordless prayer, for 
I had so much to say that I could not 
find the words to convey my thoughts. 
I can not remember asking for anything 
but that God be with me. For a moment 
I felt as though I hod failed to reach 
Him, but then, a peace of mind settled 
upon me and I knew whatever fate be- 
fell me, I could face it without fear. The 
numbness of defeat was replaced by a 
keenness I hod never experienced be- 
fore. 

I was not alone; God rode with me. 

We left the bumpy rood, turning to 
the right onto a smooth pavement, then 
to the left and again to the right. I tried 
to keep track of the many turns, butsoon 
I was lost in the maze the driver wove 
as he spun up one street and down an- 
other. 

Somewhere along the way I noticed 
the two baseball bats on the floor. I 
could make out the name, 'Louisville 
Slugger', but was unsuccessful in trying 
to find a number or some identifying 
mark. 

A symphony of joyous shouts and 
merry laughter greeted us as we passed 
a school where children played as they 
awaited the morning bell. Thank God, 
I thought. Bob is now a man and can 
take care of himself and his mother. 

Faith that had replaced hope now in- 
stilled a boldness of spirit, and I knew 
I was not going to die. Let them beat 
me with their bots; I will take my medi- 
cine like a man, but never, never shall 
I ask them for mercy. 

I do not know how long we drove 
about, but it could not have been more 
than fen or fifteen minutes. The fat man 
kept talking about the 'Chief, and I be- 
lieve it was a prearranged signal to 
direct the driver to a place selected in 
advance. 

Several times the car backed up and 
then went on, and at last the fat man 
said, "There's the Chief, over there," 
and the car rolled to a gentle stop. 

"Get out!" 

A hand grasped my right arm above 
the elbow, and I followed without re- 
sistance once I knew which way they 
wanted me to move. 

'Yes sir," I responded as Imovedoutof 
the car. My reply sounded so firm that 
I was surprised at the tone of my voice, 
and it did have it's effect on the hood- 
lum holding me, for he relaxed his "grip 
on my arm and moved slightly to the 
rear, steering me to a spot twenty or 
thirty feet away. 



I heard one of the thugs reaching into 
the car for the baseball bats and another 
walking heavily in the rear. My hat was 
still far down on the bridge of my nose, 
and i could see nothing but a thick blanket 
of grass extending to the five-foot limit 
of my vision. 

"All right, get down on the ground, 
and lay on your belly." Only the fat 
man had spoken and this was to be his 
last order to me. 

I dropped to my knees and then 
stretched out with my arms folded under 
me, my face resting in the grass. 

And there I lay before the men who 
might beat me to death, without fear to 
burden me; I wanted to get it over and 
hoped I would be alive when they had 
finished....my only shield a wordless 
prayer. 

An excruciating pain flashed through 
me as a heavily swung bat struck my 
heel like a bolt of lightning. Before a 
scream of pain could leave my lips, 
another blow fell on the other heel; 
and together, the two thugs, one on 
each side, began a thythmical, machine- 
like beating on my legs. Three, four, they 
worked on my ankles, six, seven, their 
bats swung like the pendulum of a giant 
clock, only faster and harder, so hard I 
could feel my bones breaking as the 
blows landed. Twelve, thirteen, as they 
left the ankles and slowly worked their 
way up my legs. 

One hundred blows later they were 
bearing down as their bats sank deeply 
into my back. Now my arms were out 
from under me as I tried to divert the 
bats from an old injury to my neck. My 
up-raised arms took the full brunt of the 
blows as countless sledge hammer 
whacks drove them down to my sides. 

The pain eased as the over-worked 
nervous system failed to carry it's load, 
and I feigned insensibility, hoping to lead 
the thugs into believing that they had 
knocked me out. A wicket blow to the 
seat of the spine almost 'revived' me; 
and then, the beating came to a merci- 
ful halt. But, it was only a brief respite, 
as hands reached down to turn me over 
onto my back. I could not see the men, 
for all was black above me. I had lost 
my sense of sight. 

The beating began anew; I lay upon 
my back. Now the sharp, piercing pains 
were gone as the bats landed; only dull 
aches marked each blow. 

Abruptly, the beating ended. There was 

(Continued on page 30) 



29 



MY ONLY SHIELD 

(^Continued from page 29) 
not an easing in their blows, nor a break 
in their rhythm, yet it was over. Not a 
word was spoken; the stillness of the 
autumn day was broken only by the soft 
murmur of the car as it slowly drove 
away. 

I laid there trying not to move, thank- 
ful I had lived through it all. Nearby, 
I heard the chirping of a starling, 
sounding sweeter than spring's firstlork. 
It was so good to lie there and rest for 
a moment; so good to be alive. 

The darkness left me, and I looked up 
at the bluest sky I have ever seen. Ev- 
erything was beautiful; the rich carpetof 
green grass beneath me; the large oak, 
nearby, still wearing it's cloak of bright 
green leaves; the sweet smell ofautumn 
in the gentle breeze that rose to refresh 
me. Never again, I vowed, would I fail 
to appreciate the beauty of this wonder- 
ful world. 

Shielded from fear, pain alone hod 
taxed my strength; now I was stronger 
as pain ebbed, and I sat up to take in- 
ventory of what was left of me. Ginger- 
ly, I felt my left arm and then the right. 
Both seemed to pass the test, and my 
left leg, too, checked out all right. 

"The dirty dogs did not hurt me after 
all," I muttered aloud. But, when I felt 
my right leg I knew I would never leave 
the place alone, for, from the knee down, 
my leg had no more rigidity than a mass 
of jelly. 

My eyes swept the ground beneath 
the oak, seeking a branch or twig that 
would make a splint. There was nothing, 
nothing at all that would help me to 
get out of there without further damage 
to my broken leg. 

A trail ran thirty feet from where I 
lay; it was the trail the thugs had used 
to carry me there; just two tracks cut 
through the grass, probably o farmer's 
road to his field. I wondered how long 
it would be before a car would pass; it 
might be days, but I would patiently 
await it's coming. 

It was a miracle that help came so soon. 
Only a few minutes had slipped by when 
I heard the car coming, an old Chevrolet 
driven by an eighteen year old boy. 
He wos going twenty-five as he passed 
me. I watched him drive on, alarmed 
when he did not stop— he suddenly 
braked his car several hundred feet 
nway. He was afraid to get out of his 
car to help me, but I will be forever 



grateful that he called the police. 

Another miracle took place in the 
Alexian Brother's Hospital in Chicago, 
where Doctor Leo Miller and an ef- 
ficient staff worked seventy-threedaysto 
successfully heal my score of broken 
bones. 

Three miracles, but the greatest of 
these: God rode with me. 



(Continued from page 19) 

broke very easily. Once at a concert in 
Berlin, he recalled breaking three strings 
in the middle of a piece, but again be- 
cause of the improvisatory nature of 
Flamenco, he was able to complete the 
'piece. 

Gradually the light fingered playing 
during the interview gave way to a 
frenzied strumming as the sound tech- 
nician signaled that all was atlastready. 
On this note we left the silent, empty 
field house only to return that evening 
to the hushed fullness, broken only by 
the audience's occasional thunderous 
applause. This was their way of saying 
thank you Montoya for coming to Clem- 
son. 




Hickory Ballet Company - Louis Nunnery, Director 



A DAY OF THE DANCE 



BY CLARKE PLAXCO 

With great fluttering of wings and 
clanging of halos the troups dressed, 
rehearsed, picniced, exchanged notes, 
changed dress, and performed. Nat- 
urally, this chaos and confusion occurred 
on the stage-but only during the work- 
shop In the afternoon and only backstage 
and out of the hearing range of a packed 



house at theevening performance. More 
fluttering, clanging, and even some 
scampering and the ballet companies 
from surrounding towns and colleges 
put away childish things (mainly wings 
and halos) and danced Imaginatively 
and creatively before on entranced aud- 
ience. 



Flowing movements and graceful 
forms filled the stage as abstract ballet, 
and modern dance melled into a totality 
of effect. Fog rolled, shells opened, lights 
dimmed and brightened, candles flicker- 
ed, and mermaids mermaided (or what 
(Continued on page 33) 




THE DRESSING ROOM 



IMESTONE COLLEGE MODERN DANCE, EUNICE SHEFFIELD, DIRECTOR 





The Civic Ballet Of Greenville, Doris McClellan, Director 
Limestone College Modern Dance, 
Eunice Sheffield, Director 



A Day Of The Dance 

(Continued from page 31) 

ever they do) to complete the totality of 
production. 

And all to the tune of Debussy, Ravel, 
Bach, and others under the directions of 
Louis Nunnery (Hickory Ballet Com- 
pany), Peggy Fletcher (Land of the Sky 
Ballet), Doris S. McClellan (Civic Ballet 
of Greenville), Carol Neubner (Lander 
College Modern Dance), Eunice Shef- 
field (Limestone College Modern Dance), 
and Ansie Lou Fain (Clemson Ballet 
Company), who also sponsored "the 
dance festival. 

Perhaps again, and soon we hope, 
scurrying and fluttering of little feet will 
return to Clemson— in the form of Mod- 
ern Dance and Ballet, of course. 



Illllllllllllllltlllllllll IIIIIIIIMIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 



It v*as Christmas Eve, and the house 
was brightly decorated with sprigs of 
holly. All the little children gathered at 
grandmother's knee. 

"Tell us a story Grandma," little Polly 
pleaded. 

"Would you like to hear the Night 
Before Christmas," Grandma said softly. 

"Nah," said little Johnny, 'tellusabout 
the time you were a prostitute in De- 
troit." 




Hi 



33 




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This is CU. Not the side usually photographed, but none the 
less a side. From the whistle that sounds five minutes before and 
five minutes after, to the tioin toioers of education, this is where we 
live. lAke it or not, these are perhaps the true views, those seen 
daily by the student. The familiar Dumpmaster and the triangular 
construction company have invaded our world, building on one 
hand and cleaning out the trash on the other. Step right up 
folks, here they are, take a good look, because you may not see 
them or us again. 




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Third Place Short Story 
By Lawrence J. Fisher 

It was a good church; not a big church 
or a greet church or even an especial 
special-looking church but it was nice 
and quiet ond pleasant in the spring 
with marigolds waving gently around it 
and soft spring breezes singing through 
the pines which surrounded the grove 
that held the church. 

Father Swartz stepped lightly through 
the large oaken doors of the church and 
shaded his eyes against the bright April 
sun which was slanting down from the 
sky. He could almost see the big four- 
lane highway which had profaned its 
way through his quiet forest, bringing 
with it all the stench and stink and hustle 
and bustle of the cities, disrupting the 
quiet hermitage, the peaceful sanctity of 
his little haven; but not quite. The sun 
was too bright and his wrinkled old eyes 
were too oged, they couldn't see as 
well as they used to anymore. So he 
wouldn't be able to see Sonny's car until 
it turned off the highwoy and came on 
to the old dirt road through the maple 
grove. But he would be there today, he 
hod to come, he just hod to. 

The old priest turned and started to go 
back in the church when outof thecorner 
of his eyehesawacloudofdust down by 
the old maple tree that Bishop Forns- 
worth had planted on his first visit to 
America in commemoration of the first 
Catholic to be martyred by the Indians 
in Idaho. It was Sonny's car alright, a 
long sleek convertible, somehow sym- 
bolic of his long absence from the parrish. 

Father Sv^jrtz leaped from the porch 
and ran to meet Sonny's car as it jarred 
to o dusty htjit in front of the vestibule. 

'Sonny!' he shouted, "You've come 
home at lost. 

A tall lean man dressed in stylish 
sports clothes and a maroon ascot 
opened the convertible door deftly and 



got out. *Mr. Errant to you Father,' he 
snapped quickly, "I'm no kid anymore 
you know.' 

The old man, obviously embarrassed 
tugging hesitotingly at hisgroying beard 
for a moment. "Well,' he finally said 
cautiously, "It's just that well....have you 
heard. I mean do you know about it all. 
I mean all the things that have happen- 
ed.' 

"Well, not exactly,' the younger man 
replied, "I got your damn telegram up 
in Boise and I said what the heck, what's 
a priest for if you can't....' 

"Listen Sonny,' the old man inter- 
rupted, "it's about....' 

"Not....' 

"Yes," the priestsoid gently, "I'mofroid 
so.' 

"My goodness'. Sonny said, obvious- 
ly stunned by the news, "why didn't 
you call me sooner. You know how 
much....' The young man broke down and 
could not go on. He leaned forward and 
rested his head gently against the old 
priest's frayed cassock. 

"There, there,' the old moncounseled, 
"come on in the house and I'll get you a 
glass of wine. It'll make you feel a lot 
better.' 

They walked slowly around the side of 
the church, heading for the small wooden 
rectory, the young man leaning for sup- 
port on the wise aged shoulders of the 
older one. 

"I notice you've planted marigolds 
since I left,' Sonny soid, trying to stifle 
a sob. 

"Yes,' Sonny said sadly, "you goowoy 
for a few years and everything changes; 
the whole world you knew and loved as 
a child crumbles right out from under 
your feet.' 

The old priest, knowing the great truth 
involved in this last statement wisely de- 
cided not to say anything. Measured 

(Continued to page 36) 



35 



AN AMERICAN TRADEGY 

(Continued from page 35) 

silence is always the better part of wis- 
dom. 

They sot quietly in the parlor for a while 
sipping Christian Brothers' wine and talk- 
ing about the old times. 

"I guess I've been away longer than 
I thought," Sonny said, "how's Mom and 
Dad and Sis?" 

"Well things are never as bad as they 
seem. Things are always darkest before 
the storm and no matter how bad off 
you think you are there's always some- 
one who's...." 

"Please Father," Sonny said, "don'ttry 
to be too kind. I can take it; I'm not a kid 
anymore you know." 

"Well," the old man began, taking a 
deep preliminary sip of the rich red port, 
'your Father, God Rest His Soul, died 
of pellegra last year. Don't know what 
it was, just senile I guess; he wouldn't 
eat his greens at mealtimes or drink his 
orange juice. Just sort of withdrew into 
his shell and curled up in his rocker on 
the porch and faded away, like odream. 
Charlie, I used to say, you're notgetting 
enough vitamins; but he'd just sit there 
in his rocking chair and stare out into 
the pines like he was waitin' for some- 
thing." 

"I know," Sonny sobbed, *it was...." 

"There boy, don't take it so hard," the 
old man said, patting Sonny on the 
shoulder, "It wasn't so much you as 
when your sister ran away with that 
traveling circus that finally broke his 
spirit. It's hard on a man when his own 
flesh and blood go to...." 

'What about Mom?" Sonny inter- 
rupted, "she still wearing those funny 
looking dresses and baking thatgoodold 
cornbread like...." 

"Oh Sonny!" the old man exclaimed, 
"she's...." 

"She's not...." 

"I'm afraid...." 

"I forgot about...." 

"Yes, it's...." 

"Not...." 

"Yes, I'm afraid...." 

'Are you...." 

'Yes...." 

'Sure....* 

"Fairly certain." 

It was almost twilight and the April sun 
had shifted almost to the horizon, casting 
long gothic shadows across the tender 
scene in the quiet little parlor. Sonny sat 
weeping silently, his head bent and his 



shoulders convulsing in racking sobs. The 
old man got up gently and refilled their 
glasses. ' 

"Buck up, boy," he crooned, "the Lord 
giveth and the Lord...." 

"Can I see her," Sonny said suddenly, 
"I mean is there time for that." 

"Perhaps son," the old man said, "ifwe 
hurry. She's on her last leg nowand fad- 
ing fast." 

"We've wasted enough time here," 
Sonny said decisively, "let's hurry and 
get to her side." 

They scurried out of the house quickly 
and the old man headed for his garage. 

"Let's take my car!" Sonny shouted, 
"It's faster." 

"No," the old man said wistfully, "I 
don't think she'd like it that way.. 

"You're right," Sonny said, "it was stu- 
pid of me to suggest it." 

Father Swartz's old Chewy wouldn't 
crank so they decided to drop the for- 
malities and go in Sonny's convertible. 
They screeched down the old dirt road, 
arriving at Sonny's decaying old farm 
house in slightly under eight minutes. 

"Jeez," Sonny beamed, when they go 
to his house, "that's the fastest I ever 
made that trip." He gotoutofthecar and 
patted it affectionately on the hood. "They 
don't makum much better than this baby," 
he said, "got it for two even; low on 
gas, don't burn a drop of oil, rides just 
as...." 

"We'd better hurry," the old man said, 
a note of concern creeping into his voice, 
"we don't want to miss the whole thing." 

Inside, the house was a veritible frenzy 
of emotion as relatives had gathered 
from near and far to be with Mrs. Errant 
in her last fleeting moments. Among the 
harried faces of the onlookers Sonny 
caught sight of one that caused his heart 
to freeze in its tracks. It wasn't....or could 
it be? Before he could get across the 
crowded room to verify this almost un- 
believable fact he was intercepted by his 
Aunt Hilda and Uncle Red. 

"Oh Sonny!" his Aunt exclaimed, "it's 
so nice that you could come." 

"It's nice to be here. Aunt Hil," Sonny 
replied, "I'm just sorry things hove to be 
so rotten." 

"She'll be glad to see you," his Aunt 
beamed. 

"It's not really...." 

"Yes, I'm afraid...." 

Crestfallen, Sonny pushed his way 
across the room and there she was, stand- 
ing in the doorway of the sickroom. 
The years suddenly slipped away like 



winter clothes in the springtime and 
Sonny saw her standing down in the old 
meadow and they were both children 
again, romping through the pristine 
.paths of childhood, playing silly child- 
hood games, touching each other shyly, 
exploring and then getting a whipping 
for doing it. 

"Annabelle," he called shyly, the words 
flowing out of his throat in warm ec- 
stacy, "ls....is that you?" 

The young girl turned, dropping an 
ice bag to the floor with a resounding 
crash. "Oh Sonny!" she exclaimed, and 
flew to embrace him in the hall. "It's 
your Mom, she's...." Annabelle hesitated 
in his ear." 

•Yes. I...." 

"It's...." 

"So I've heard." 

They walked together into the sick- 
room, grasping hands across the eterni- 
ties of years and stood quietly at the 
foot of thedarkenedbed. Sonny'smother 
raised her blotched and swollen face. 
"Is that my son there! she cried, almost 
inaudibly. 

"Yes Mother," Sonny said softly, "it's 
your Sonny, come home at last." With 
that he flew to her side and clutched 
her feeble hand. 

"It's those damn chickens," she 
groaned, "I knew they'd get me in the 
end." 

Sonny was token back for a moment 
but Annabelle, who had come up behind 
him, cupped her hands around his ear 
and giggled, "She still thinks it comes 
from chickens." 

Sonny, totally agast and at a loss for 
words, could stand it no longer and ex- 
cused himself from the room. Annabelle 
followed him quietly out of the room 
and they met Father Swartz on the way 
in. ■ 

"Father," Sonny said, on sheer im- 
pulse, "Annabelle and I want to get 
married." 

"But son," the old man said gently, 
"your mother's fixing to die of the pox, 
that cursed pox that comes like a thief in 
the night to steal away...." 

"I know Father," Sonny said logically, 
"but what could be more appropriate; 
new life burgeoning in the face of death. 
It's poetic, that's what it is, poetic." 

"Well, come into the bedroom," the 
old man acquiesed, "let that be the last 
sight your poor old mother's eyes be- 
hold." 

"Is it contagious in there?" Annabelle 
asked shyly, "I mean is it safe and...."i 



36 



"Have no fear my child," the old man 
said, "the Lord giveth and...." 

The tender couple stood enraptured 
at the foot of the bed and received Mrs. 
Errant's blessing. Aunt Hill did a fair 
job of playing Lohengrin's on on old 
A harmonica someone dug up in the 
attic. 

"Oh Lord, I'm coming home!" shouted 
Mrs. Errant, as the troths were being 
platted. 

"Please!" shouted Father Swartz, 
"that's Baptist you know." 

"Get on with it!" Annabelle said eager- 

ly. 

"Bringin' In the Sheaves", the old wo- 
man yelled, and Aunt Hil immediately 
caught up the tune on the harmonica. 

Unwilling to be unnerved the old man 
stood firm. "There's noneed toloseone's 
dignity just because one is dying,' he 
said sternly. 

Sonny and Annabelle disappeared in 
the crowd as Aunt Hil swung into a 
rousing chorus of "Buffalo Gols" and 
Father Swartz, obviously miffed, stalked 
out gracefully. 



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THE CHRONICLE REVIEWS 



RUDOLPH E. LEE GALLERY 



By BILL ETHERIDGE 



Once again the CHRONICLE takes you 
on a stimulating itinerary through that 
*in-spot" on campus, the Rudolph E. Lee 
Gallery. For the sake of you culturally- 
deprived readers who feel that there 
may be better aesthetically-enlighten- 
ing establishments around campus then 
Dan's or Saint Nick's, you are welcome 
most any time to visit this hallmark of 
culture in the School of Architecture. If 
you can locate the entrance to the Archi- 
tecture building (and some fifth year 
students have not yet located it yet). 



you cannot possibly miss the Gallery. 
Once inside the main entrance, simply 
lose yourself in the vast mob sure to 
be gathered there, and shortly you will 
find yourself pondering endeavors in the 
visual arts that would stimulate any ag- 
riculture major to profound thoughts. 
Recently the Gallery played hostto the 
Annual High School Art Exhibition. With 
competition open to all South Carolina 
high schools, the exhibition offered a 
wide range of fine art endeavors, with 
entries in categories from sculpture to 



oil portraits, to collages. 

To be found in the motley extrava- 
ganza were a multitude of miraculous- 
ly magnificent artistic manifestations. 
Our photography staff-bless their little 
telephoto hearts— brought to us a col- 
lection of award-winning entries, which 
we benevolently in turn bring to you. 
Consider the works of these aspiring 
qoung artists and marvel at their abil- 
ity. 

A dazzling display of virgin, yet virile, 
art.... 



38 




39 



IIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIItlllllllllltllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMIIIMIIIIIIII 



For Food and Drink 

Coupled With an 

Atmosphere Conducive to 

Stimulating Conversation 




BOLTON'S 



HIGHWAY 123 CLEMSON 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



40 



GRAY AUTUMN 

(Continued from page 15) 

began her reminiscences, snnoothing 
over the rough spots and finally making 
the meal almost enjoyable. After it was 
over, Steven disappeared and Marge 
helped Aunt Ruth to clean the dishes. 
For some reason I decided to look in at 
my father as I passed his door. In a real 
wave of goodness, I pushed the door 
open and walked silently to the side of 
his bed. 

His weak eyes were closed in sleep, and 
breath grated from his nostrils into the 
yellow air of the darkened room. The 
heavy, pungent odor of medicine and 
hospitals lay upon everything. Like some 
hobo packing his belongings intoo hand 
kerchief and tying up the ends, death 
was drawing his body up into a frail 
container for his old spirit. The last five 
years had been cruel to him, mentally 
and physically, robbing him of his wife, 
his family, his children, and his lovely 
summers. 

The sight of his thin, huddled body re- 
pulsed me, filled me with the strange 
sickening desire of a child wanting to 
touch a dead animal, examine it, expose 
its small insides, thrill in disgust at the 
tingling feel of pale, yielding, uncooled 
flesh. I was about to turn and go when, 
with that strange ability of a blind man 
to know when someone is near, his eyes 
fluttered open and he looked in my di- 
rection, seeming to almost see me 
through some fine mist. 

"Jamie," his voice was nearly unin- 
telligible, hauntingly dead as he called 
my older brother's name. I felt the 
prickle of hair standing up on my neck 
as the speckled, translucent hand shiver- 
ed out and grasped my arm. Some kind 
ot frightened anger rose from my dis- 
gust, and I wanted to jerk my arm away, 
to scream that I was not Jamie, that 
Jamie was dead and that this shadow of 
a man on the bed had killed him, had 
provided the means for his death. 

"Helen, is that Jamie come backto us?" 

His dead wife did not answer, nor did 
his dead son speak. I realized fully then 
that his mind had been carried away by 
fond recollections, and was now in that 
realm of dreams in which the world was 
everlasting and false. 

I pulled his hand off my arm and backed 
to the doorway, stood in some rapt 
amazement. 

"Jamie, is that you?" 

His yellow face settled back into soft 

• *^' • • f X ' • ♦ 



incomprehension, and the eyelids quiv- 
ered shut. 

"No, Dad, it's not Jamie," I whispered, 
barely hearing myself, then closed the 
door behind me. 

Downstairs, Marge and Aunt Ruth were 
drinking coffee and talking as I descend- 
ed. The sound of voices was pleasant. 
It reached out and pulled me away from 
the world of ghosts and wierd fantasies 
in which my father dwelled. They both 
looked up when I entered the room. 

My expression must have silenced 
them. 

"I've been up to see Dad," (explained. 

"Was he glad to see you," Aunt Ruth 
asked, relieved. 

"He didn't recognize me," I answered. 
Marge came to me and put her head on 
my shoulder. 

"Oh, Auttie, I'm so sorry, "shesaidwith 
pity, seeming to want to share the emo- 
tion with me. I put my arm around her 
waist and we walked out onto the porch. 

The night finally stretched itself out, 
shifted to a comfortable position, and 
settled in muffled silence around us. Be- 
tween the cool sheets with their smell of 
my childhood, IfeltMarge'sbreath on the 
side of my face, and its unevenness 
told me that she was awake. 

"Can't you sleep?" I whispered. 

"No," she answered. 

"V\liat is it?" 

Marge was silent for a moment, and 
I felt the breeze outside flowing im- 
patietn 
patiently around the house. 

"Auttie, who was Martha Graham?" 

"Where did you hear around her?" I 
asked a little louder. 

"Don be cross. Aunt Ruth told me some- 
thing about her. I didn't understand all 
of it." 

"She was just a girl who lived in the 
next house for a few summers. She left 
five years ago." 

"Why did Aunt Ruth seem so.... so 
secretive about her?" 

I sat up. "Oh, well, I might as well tell 
you the whole story. Light me a cigarette, 
will you? I can't sleep either." 

Marge sat up and reached over to 
the night table. Her lighter flickered 
against her face and hair, then went 
quickly out, and I sow smoke curl away 
from her. She touched my face, finding 
the mouth, and inserted the cigarette, 
then leaned back against me. 

"Well," I began, "when Dinghy died 

(Continued to page 41) 




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(Continued from page 40} 
my father tried to fence the whole fam- 
ily in, protect us. But he found out that 
they wouldn't have that; Steven was the 
only one he could control, and the two of 
them sort of stayed separated from the 
rest of us. 

"Dinghy hod been more like a good 
friend to me, and when he died, Iwould- 
n't have anything to do with Dad, and 
then with Steven. I grew onto my mother 
for awhile, butshe wosweakond passive, 
and when I realized I didn't need her 
either, I just kind of quit the family. 

'Everything went all right until Steven 
began to grow up and resent the author- 
ity Dad had over him. He couldn't hove 
gotten along without Dad, I don't think, 
but he hated the hold Dad had on him." 

"Did you blame your father for 
Dinghy's getting killed?" 

"No. At least I didn't try to. If he hadn't 
let Dinghy take the boat out, he wouldn't 
have been killed." 

"When did Martha Graham come in?" 

"Oh, I musthavebeensixteenthatsum- 
mer. Her father bought the old Quince 
house next door, and they stayed here 
for a couple of summers. Hand me the 
ashtray, please?" 

Light was flowing timidly through the 
window from the street lamp at the end 
of the drive. The sheets rustled and I saw 
the outling of Marge's body curving 
gracefully away as she reached out. I 
put out the cigarette in the ashtray and 
continued. 

"Steven was about fourteen when she 
came here. Two years later I went to col- 
lege and didn't come back until the sum- 
mer of my second year. She was all 
grown up and nice looking. I was nine- 
teen and that would make Steven seven- 
teen. I think she was his age. Anyway, 
the next October, we found out that she 
was pregnant and Dad got Steven to ad- 
mit that he had been having relations 
with her. We got a lot of trouble from 
Graham's lawyers, but Dad's reputation 
and money scared them and we got it 
settled out of court. It wasn't in any of 
the papers around here, but somehow 
everybody found out about it and the 
next summer we were ruined. Dad never 
had anything to say to Steven after 
that, and then Steven went to school and 
Mother died in March. It was all very 
confusing, but I think Steven suffered 
more than anyone. He seemed to, any- 
way. He and Dad could hardly live with- 
out each other before, and the preg- 
nancy destroyed that. Steven never has 



gotten over it." 

"But why did he do it in the first 
place?" 

"What, make her pregnant? I doubt if 
he intended to do exactly that. I think he 
was in love with her." 

"How do you know all of this?" 

"My god, he is my brother." 

Marge shifted in the bed as if some- 
thing was bothering her. 

"What's the matter now," I asked. 

"Auttie, did you ever.... have relations 
with her?" 

"Martha? She was just a kid." 

"But, did you...." 

I didn't say anything for a minute, 
trying to decide what to tell her. Then I 
lied. 

"No. Let's go to sleep." 

AAarge seemed satisfied with that and 
curled up against me. She was silent 
and I thought she was going to sleep. 
Then she stirred again. 

"Auttie?" she whispered. 

"Yes?" 

"Did she look like me?" 

"Why do you ask that?" 

"Aunt Ruth...." she trailed off, expecting 
me to be angry. In the pause between 
question and answer, I recalled Martha 
Graham's face, the 'foce that launched 
a thousand shifts' I used to call it, and 
she would laugh and lean down and 
kiss me. 

"Yes, she looked a little like you." 

Marge said nothing else, and I tried 
to sleep. But the sound of that lough, 
that mouth against me, a hundred other 
characteristics of Martha Graham 
whispered through my head, and I re- 
membered in spite of myself. 

There wasa smallcovedown the beach, 
to meet there in my nineteenthsummer, 
with the waves fluttering and reaching 
out swift and sure across the shore, and 
the birds we re startling flashes on the sky. 
The water was deep, purple-clean, 
strongly sheltered by high rockcliffs, and 
only a rustle overthe spellbound surface 
proved that the scene was real. Crooked 
dry grass hung limply from the black 
rocks, whitened by thestrangenessof the 
summer's heat, thick and stiff and bend- 
ing where the cliffs turned in upon them- 
selves. From the slopes, streams flowed 
down through stunted forests into the 
clear cove. 

I remember the white curve of beach, 

the pleasant incline down which flowed 

the largest inlet. I remember taking off 

my shoes and letting my feet sink into 

(Continued to page 42) 



229223 



(Continued from page 41) 
the hot sand, saplings rising up beside 
the brook to weave a feathery roof 
through which the sun reached hesitant- 
ly. I remember the stream bulging out 
to form shallow pools with pebbled bot- 
toms, fringed with ferns that dangled 
fingers lazily into the cold water; the 
shade ripe and green, with green moss 
growing thick and close to the ground, 
soft, the pattering of water, white upon 
the stones, splashing drops onto the fern 
leaves, the sun drifting down, lying in 
glowing yellow patches on the moss, sea 
breezes filtering through the forest, 
scented with stolen fragrance of plants. 

She stood there in her certain way look- 
ing quizically into the water, her lovely 
legs apart, her brown hair long and trac- 
ing the curve of the spine, shining, cool- 
ly paralyzed upon her shoulders, water 
tossing sunlight into the large brown 
eyes, smoothly over pale lips and skin. 

I was standing behind her in the sea- 
son's magnificence, touching her 
shoulder, letting my fingerstangle in her 
hair, her body a hot hallowed temple 
with its mouth a crescent doorway. 

"Touch me," she had whispered, the 
leaves swishing through the dazzling 
green canopy of branches stretched 
above us, rustling down the midday, 
the limbs crossing, moving surely, 
smoothly grating against each other, 
touching at the frail curve of leaves, 
making sounds, quiet rattling, always in 
some constant, urgent motion, limbflow- 
ing into limb as the breeze pushed and 
prodded them in streaming rushes. And 
then the sudden tranquility as the wind 
withdrew, time slowed to a pattering 
rhythm like falling water, a pause in 
which we could notice the lace-like veins 
reaching quickly through each leaf, the 
strong silence of fibers, thick solid limbs 
drawn to ease, fallen apart. 

We would lie there in tense stillness, 
calmly wondering at our miracle. Iwould 
feel the warm length of her hair on my 
face, her body spread long and tan be- 
side me; I would feel her all around me 
as the day beat slowly on with the even- 
tempoed sun surging steadily down the 
sky, the trees swinging, dancing through 
the dappled shadows of the clearing, 
birds darting in and out with starkmove- 
ments. I remembered the sensation of 
wanting to curl and sleep, tolieencased 
beside her in the sun's white womb and 
dream it over, wake to find her head on 
my arm. And I would lie on my back, 
stretch as she rose on her elbows, look- 



ing down into my face, brush my fore- 
head with her hair and smile, her sweet 
silk breast against my ribs. I would blink 
as the sun passed across my face and 
flowed away in latecirclesover the moss, 
tilt my head sideways until my cheek 
touched her arm, look up and start to 
speak. She would raise a finger, put it 
on my lips, her mouth in hushed excite- 
ment, would smile and say: 

"You feel good inside me," and there 
was nothing more to be said. 

I looked over at Margesleeping against 
me, her mouth parted gently as if in 
dreaming. There was no point in telling 
her the truth, that she did in fact look 
very much like Martha, had always 
looked that way. Nor could I tell herthat 
I had gotten Martha Graham pregnant, 
and not Steven. 

I woke early; the sun seemed to be 
waiting for me to step out and breathe 
before it continued with the morning. I 
let Marge sleep and dressed quickly, 
closing the door behind me when I left. 
The house was dark; it seemed dusty 
about the stairs, the old wallpaper cling- 
ing weakly to the drab walls like fragile 
parchment. The wood groaned under 
my weight in yawning protest of the early 
hour. 

Outside, the air was thick and watery, 
frozen with the motionless chill of gray 
sky and autumn dawns. Heavy liquid 
clouds seettied across the sky and gath- 
ered where the sun was about to rise. 
The thunger of early breakers seemed 
unfamiliar in the half-light. 

Steven was sitting on the porch, 
wrapped up in his overcoat. As I ap- 
proached, he rose and almost smiled at 
me. 

"Let's walk down the beach and watch 
the sun come up," he suggested. 

"All right," I said. "What are you doing 
up so early?" 

"I couldn't sleep well. I think it's the 
house, the way things are. You know." 

"Yes, you always were up before the 
rest of us," I said. "You're a nervous 
wreck. You need a woman," I laughed. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Nothing," I answered. 

We walked down the beach in silence 
as the sun rose. Then he spoke again. 

"You know who your wife reminds 
me of?" He seemed amused. 

"Who?" 

"Martha Graham," he said hesitantly, 
as though he didn't know how I would 
react. 

"Martha? Why does she remind you 



of Martha?" 

"I don't know. Her face, her hair, it 
just looks the same." 

"Whatever happened to Martha any- 
way?" 

"Oh, I don't know," Steven said. I 
sensed that he didn't want to talk about 
her anymore, and I pressed the subject. 

"Did she have the baby?" 

"I don't know." 

"She probably got an abortion. Didn't 
you ever hear from her?" 

"No." He didn't say anything for a 
while, and I could feel him screwing up 
his courage. 

"Auttie, you know she was the only 
girl l....ever made.... made love to." 

"You sound serious." 

"I am." 

"Were you in love with her or some- 
thing?" 

"I think so." 

"Was she a virgin?" 

"I think so." 

"You think so?" 

"I couldn't tell. She said she was." 

I laughed. "If you don't know that, 
how do you know that you're the one 
who got her pregnant?" 

"Who else could it have been?" 

"Oh, come on, Steven. She was prob- 
ably doing everyone on the beach." 

"No she wasn't." Hewasgetting angry. 
"She told me she wasn't." 

"Don't be ridiculous." 

"Did you ever do it?" 

I had been waiting for this, it seemed, 
for a long time. "Yes," I said, and waited 
for his reaction. 

"You're lying. You're just saying that." 

"Why should I lie, Steven? I've got 
nothing to hide." 

He stopped and looked at me, be- 
ginning to realize what had happened. 

"Then," he said slowly, "then it was 
you." 

"Yes, it was me. I knew she was preg- 
nant before you ever carried her down 
to your lovely little moss-covered cove. 
V^ planned it, right down to the very 
day!" 

"But why?" his eyes pleaded. 

"Because I hated you. I hated you 
both. He killed my brother and youwent 
along and happened to get in the way." 

"Who...." 

"My father!" 

Still looking omazedly at me, he began 
to back quickly away and run. I grabbed 
his arm. 

"Where are you going?" I shouted. 



42 



"To tell him. He thought it was me. I 
thought it was me. All these years. 
Let me go!" 

"Go ahead and tell him! He won't 
understand a word! He won't even know 
who you are! He thought I was Dinghy!" 

"You're crazy! Let me go!" He swung 
and hit me in the face with his fist, some- 
thing he would never have done ordi- 
narily. I fell to the sand and lay there, 
amazed by everything that had hap- 
pened. I had not intended it this fast; 
I hod wanted to draw it out, watch the 
pain of revelation on his face. But it was 
done now, and he was running off down 
the beach toward some illusory world 
that my father hod kept him out of. 

I stood up, brushed myself off and 
wiped my face with a handkerchief. There 
was no hurry in getting back, and as I 
approached. Aunt Ruth was hurrying 
toward me. 

"Something's happened to Steven," 
she exclaimed. 

"What's the matter?" 

"He ran in and went upstairs. Then we 
heord him crying and he kept saying 
something about your fother 'not un- 
derstanding.' Do you know anything 
about this?" 

Without answering her, I entered the 
house and went directly upstairs. Marge 
was standing bewildered in the kitchen, 
and Aunt Ruth followed me up. Steven 
was outside of my father's room, lean- 
ing against the wall with his eyesclosed. 
He did not look at me. Aunt Ruth was 
muttering something about Dad beingall 
right, but I didn't pay any attention. The 
sight of my brother crying paralyzed me 
with fascination. 

Then, like a wave washing over me, 
came the memory of the day Dinghy 
died. I could feel the wind blowing across 
the ocean, making the waves rough, 
the sky dull and ominous. Dinghy's boat 
had tipped over and the undertow had 
dragged him down like a stone. He had 
washed up near the shore when Dad 
found him and pulled him to the beach. 

When I came out, there was a large 
crowd milling about, and as I pushed 
info the people their legs seemed to be 
a forest of brown, oil-covered trees. 
Questioning voices whispered aboutlike 
a fog above me, shutting out their faces. 
At the center were my fatherand Dinghy. 

Dad bent low over my brother, and 
I didn't understand the way he lifted the 
arms, shoulders from the sand, then 
pressed on the chest. 

"Dad, what's wrong? What are you 




UAUMDRY 




doing to him? Please stop. Dad, you're 
hurting him." 

Then someone pulled me to the edge 
of the crowd and I watched as Dinghy's 
face and pole cheeks began to turn blue, 
crawl certainly to purple. The large veins 
of his arms and legs and feet and chest 
went hard and black, and I wanted to 
touch him, to feel the stiffness. Dad 
stopped and knelt there, looking down 
at him with no expression, without a 
word or sound at all. 

The gray was only a sensation about 
the sky, and I felt pressed in, suddenly 
held by the clouds and the forest offace- 
less people. They were around me, mov- 
ing, sucking at the air and blowing it 
hot and rank across my brother. I couldn't 
keep my balance against the oppression 
of so much sound and movement, and I 
struggled against the legs, the quick, 
darting noises, the stinking heat and 
sweat. I broke away, ran hard and fast 
to the house, and lunged intothe shadow 
beneath the porch. I sat limply, feeling 
the hot breath come quick and fast, 
scraping my throat like a dull steel knife. 
A warm sticky gum formed on my eye- 
lids, pasting them together, and my 
heartbeat was wave upon wave of con- 
secutive explosions. I pressed my honds 
against my eyes to destroy the vision of 
the blue-frozen body lying beneath my 
father, but succeeded only in making it 
more vivid. 

An ambulance screamed down the 
drive and slid to a stop on the sand. 
Doors opened and slammed, and Icould 
see the white uniformed legs hurrying 
past me, running toward the ocean. Then 
they returned and I was fascinated by 
the measured efficiency with which they 
moved about the ambulance. Orders 
were shouted, doors shut, the legs dis- 
appearing inside barely in time, and the 
ambulance wailed off. Then the crowd 
came by, old men with white, hairless 
legs, their checkered bathrobesflopping, 
cigars held in their delicate-veined fin- 
gers. They were separating from the ex- 
citement, and their thin nasal voices 
floated quietly into my shadows, accus- 
ing, blaming, hauntingly vital as they 
quoted secret prophets long dead and 
far away. 

i stood there at the head of the stairs, 
looking at Steven, watching him feel what 
I had felt beneath the porch. For thefirst 
time I knew fully that I had destroyed 
them both, father and son, and had 
avenged my brother; I had reduced my 

(Continued to page 44) 
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(Continued from page 4 3) 
from Steven's loins. 

Now Dad could die and turn blue 
amid the blank faces of his people. I 
turned slowly, slowly, so much drama in 
the grace, such fantastic triumph as I 
had never felt, making me want to smile 
in the glory of it. I took the first broad 
step, then the second, the third. Below, 
AAarge, that strange woman of all our 
pasts, my instrument, my victory, waited 
anxiously, incomprehending, frightened 
at the sounds of this forgotten lover 
crying from the heat of her body. She 
searched me from her obscured world 
as I descended, and she knew the dis- 
advantage of that world with its half- 
told stories, its half-shadows, half of a 
sun in its sky. And itwas autumn and per- 
fect. 

"Auttie....?" she questioned. 



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